


The Words To Explain

by inigo1220



Series: The Ants Go Marching [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Elementary School, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Gender Dysphoria, Libraries, Race, The Talk, potty training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:41:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 22,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22057207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inigo1220/pseuds/inigo1220
Summary: Fingon knows he's special. After all, by the age of 3, he knew his whole alphabet and even learned to spell his name. But as he grows older, he begins to realize he's special in other ways--and not always in ways he wants to be. In first grade, he starts explaining his brand of special, yet finding the right words to explain is a journey, full of its own highs and lows.Snippets of Fingon's experiences growing up via one-word association. Fluff and angst. ModernAU! Nonbinary!Fingon.Will include the specific warnings and tags that apply in the notes of each chapter.
Series: The Ants Go Marching [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1586407
Comments: 29
Kudos: 48





	1. Library

**Author's Note:**

> Children have some knowledge of their letters by age three, but typically don’t know their entire alphabet (and letter-sound association) until about age five.

Fingon doesn’t like the library very much. On days when they work from home, his mom or his dad take him. He likes how the library has a lot of books with cool pictures. He really likes the circle with benches with the different games and big blocks. He likes making things with the blocks.

No, he likes the library. He just doesn’t like Mr. Irmo.

Mr. Irmo is boring. He’s always telling the kids to stop making so much noise, always “This is the library; you have to use your inside voice!” He always tells Fingon off if he runs, even just a little bit, because “This is the library; you have to walk!” One day, Fingon retorts that it’s not his fault he is little and has little legs and that he wouldn’t run if he was big like Mr. Irmo. Mr. Irmo scowls at him. “Well, then grow up!” he replies. When he turns his back, Fingon sticks his tongue out at him.

Then one day, Mr. Irmo is leading story time, and even though Fingon doesn’t like Mr. Irmo, he loves it when Mr. Irmo leads story time. Mr. Irmo makes the books come alive. Fingon would never say this to her, but he actually would rather have Mr. Irmo read to him than his mom. She’s kind of a boring story teller. Mr. Irmo is trying to get all the kids to sit and he tells Fingon, “Go sit on the blue square.” Fingon looks at the rug.

“Which? The one with A, or the one with M?”

Mr. Irmo stares at him for a second, and Fingon braces himself for another “This is the library” lecture. “The one with M,” Mr. Irmo replies. Fingon takes a seat on the M, eager to hear the story. Mr. Irmo does an amazing job, and Fingon is disappointed when it’s over.

But Mr. Irmo comes up to him. “Do you know your letters?” Fingon nods. “What’s this one?” He points to P on the rug. Fingon sighs. Why do adults never believe him when he says he knows his letters? He walks away from Mr. Irmo, but before the librarian can say anything, Fingon points down at the rug.

“A.” He moves one square down. “B.” He moves again. “C.” And again. “D.” He keeps going and going until he gets to Z. He tries to resist smirking, but Mr. Irmo doesn’t look all that impressed like the other adults normally do. His mom almost cried tears of joy when he got through the whole alphabet, and his Atya bought him ice cream.

Mr. Irmo mainly looks interested. “Can you spell your name?”

Fingon scowls at the ground. “No,” he admits. “But I know it starts with F!” He starts to look around for his amil. Mr. Irmo is making him mad. He’s only three. Isn’t it enough that he knows his alphabet? Stupid library man. He spots his mother. Amil is on her computer, but she sends him a smile and waves.

“Do you want to learn?”

Fingon’s head snaps back to Mr. Irmo. He eyes him with suspicion, but he also really would like to learn how to spell his name. Maybe if he learns it, he can show his mom before they leave, and she’ll get him pizza for dinner. Fingon nods.

Mr. Irmo looks thrilled.


	2. Penis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: Gender dysphoria  
> This is angsty.  
> Fingolfin tries to finish Fingon's potty training, and Fingon doesn't have the words to explain why he doesn't want to touch it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: gender dysphoria, angst.

Fingon stares at it with distaste. His father stands beside him, chuckling. “It’s okay, Findekano. It’s not dirty. It’s just another part of your body,” Fingolfin reassures. “Come on, you need to learn how to do this on your own before you can go to school – and you want to go to school, right?”

Fingon bites his lip. He does want to go to school. He’s seen in the library how the older kids come in with drawings and crafts, and they can read the words from the page without their parents help, and Fingon really wants to do arts and crafts and read, too. His parents promised him that they would see about getting him into a school – but he had to learn to pee right first.

“Findekano, come on, this is important. You always leave a mess, and that’s not the worst thing here, because this is our home, but at school you have to share the bathroom, so you need to learn to do it neatly.” His father’s voice is stern. Fingon looks at it again, and a feeling of revulsion swells in him at the thought of having to touch it. He looks at the way his father has curled his hand around his own. His father’s is a lot bigger than his. He hopes desperately his would never be that big. His father sighs, then kneels beside him, looking at him directly. “Can you tell me what’s wrong? Remember, you have to use your words, otherwise I can’t understand.” He’s using that soft voice, the one he uses when Fingon is really upset and needs to be calmed down. Fingon feels comforted by it. His Atya is not mad.

He wishes he had the words to explain. “It’s gross,” he finally mutters.

“Okay,” his father drawls. “What’s gross about it?”

“It’s weird,” Fingon insists.

“What’s weird?”

“Can I sit?” Fingon asks, suddenly. Fingolfin looks at the potty. “Please, Atya? I can go slower so it won’t make a mess,” he promises. Fingolfin shakes his head, and Fingon feels tears of frustration welling in his eyes. Why won’t his Atya let him pee like he always does? Why is he making him touch it? “I don’t want to touch it!” Fingon yells, his frustration getting the better of him, and he stomps his little feet on the ground. Fingolfin’s eyes go wide, and he immediately strokes his son’s hair. “I don’t want to touch it,” Fingon repeats, frowning severely, lips pouted.

Fingolfin opens his mouth then closes it. He tries again: “Fin, let me know if I’m right. You don’t want to potty like this because you don’t want to touch your penis?” Fingon nods, relaxing a little. “Ok. Are you scared to?”

Fingon thinks for a second and then shakes his head.

“Ok. Um, will it help if we wash first?”

Fingon frowns. “No.” His Atya doesn’t get it. Fingolfin falls silent. Fingon looks at him. He doesn’t seem angry, just confused.

“Fin, you know how the toilet is bigger than the potty you normally use?” Fingon nods. “Well, the toilets at school are going to be like that, too, buddy. That’s why it’s so important for you to learn to do it this way, the way that I showed you. Plus, that’s how all the other boys are going to do it, and you don’t want to be the only boy doing it the wrong way, right?”

Fingon scowls. “I don’t care.”

“But you do care about going to school,” his father retorts. Fingon ponders this. He looks back at the little stepping stool his parents got him. They smiled so much when they got it for him at the store; they said they were going to teach him how to pee like a big boy, and that then he could go make arts and crafts and learn to read for real. Fingon takes a step closer to the stepping stool. He looks back at his Atya who breaks into a wide smile. “That’s it, Finno. See, it’s not so scary. Get on the step; you won’t reach otherwise.” Fingon steps onto the stool. Tears start forming in his eyes again. He looks down at that stupid thing between his legs. He scrunches his eyes closed and grabs it, hating the sensation of the soft skin in his hand. He lets go, and he hears the sound of his pee hitting the water.

“Great job, Finno! Look at you! You even have perfect aim!” he hears his father exclaim. He hears the pride in his father’s voice, the genuine joy. The last bit of pee dribbles out, and Fingon immediately lets go of it, hops off the stool, and launches himself against his dad, clutching tightly at his leg, sobbing. “Finno, Finno,” Fingolfin picks him up and holds him against his chest. “What’s wrong, buddy?” His father rubs circles into his back, but Fingon can’t stop crying.

He doesn’t have the words to explain why he feels so sick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would really love feedback on this chapter. I've never written a nonbinary character before (and I am not nonbinary myself). If I managed to make you feel seen by writing this, then, yay -- and conversely, if this pissed you off and you have constructive criticism, please feel free to leave a comment/message.


	3. Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: The talk (the race one, not the sex one; Fingon's three and a half)
> 
> Before Fingon's first day of Pre-K, Anaire has an important conversation with him about his skin color.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My headcanon Fingon is dark-skinned. He is one of the few students of color at his school. 
> 
> Also, kids really do note skin color this early on by ages 4-6 often start attributing positive and negative traits to different skin colors. By which I mean, if you are reading this thinking that this is an inappropriate conversation to be having with a three-year-old, please either read this chapter with an open mind, or just skip it.

The night before his first day of school, his mom walks into his room and sits on the bed. She kisses his forehead. “Are you excited for tomorrow?” she asks.

Fingon grins. “Yes! I hope I get the nice teacher with the pretty dress!” Going to the open house had made him even more excited to go to school. The school had a huge playground with a giant slide Fingon was dying to try out, and the library in the classroom had a very cozy rug, and even had books that didn’t have pictures in them, just in case, the teacher winked at him.

Anaire smiles at him. “I’m glad you’re excited. You’re so smart, and school is going to help you be even smarter.” Fingon nods eagerly. He’s only three and a half but he’s learned all his letters already, even if sometimes b and d confuse him. He just has to keep saying the song in his head: a, b, c, d… “Finno, I wanted to talk to you about something important.”

“About what, amil?”

She smiles, and Fingon is proud of his use of Quenya. “Do you remember your grandfather, Finwe?” Fingon thinks for a moment, then nods. Grandpa Finwe had only come to visit them once. He was weird. He made Atya sad. Fingon didn’t like him very much, but he was told he wasn’t allowed to say so, because it’s rude to say that about people. “You know how your grandfather looks different from me and your Atya?”

“Well, yeah, he’s old,” Fingon says.

“Findekano!”

“What? He is. His skin is all weird,” Fingon protests. Anaire puts a hand over her mouth and her shoulder shake. Fingon smiles. That’s what his mom does when he says something funny, but she doesn’t want to laugh in front of him. “Was that rude?”

Anaire laughs. She nods. “Yes, Finno. Please don’t say that about people.” Her smile fades. “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about, skin.” Fingon frowns. Skin? “Your grandfather’s skin is different than mine, and your dad’s is different than mine, and yours is different, too—"

“But it’s all beautiful ‘cause different is beautiful, and black is beautiful,” Fingon dutifully finishes and finally understanding that his mom isn’t referring to wrinkles; she’s referring to skin colors. Anaire smiles again, then she looks conflicted. Fingon frowns.

“Finno, a lot of the kids at your school are going to look like your grandpa.”

Fingon stares at her. This is the important thing she wanted to talk about? “Okay.”

“They might… they might not have seen someone who looks like you before, and they might say something about your skin color.” Fingon looks down at his arm. He’s never really thought too much about his skin color. He knows it’s different than a lot of people who live around them. He knows he’s not the same skin color as mom, who has darker skin than him, or his dad, who has lighter skin than him. But it’s like his hair, he always figured: he’s a mix of his mom and dad’s love and therefore everything about him is like that, including his skin. “Like, they might have some questions about it, or they might want to touch your arm or your hair,” she continues, her voice gentle.

Fingon scrunches his nose. “I don’t want people touching my hair. They’ll mess it up.” Anaire chuckles.

“Well, that’s exactly it. You have every right to tell them no. But what’s the golden rule?”

“Treat people the way you wanna be treated,” Fingon dutifully recites.

“Exactly. So, if someone touches your hair, do you yell at them?”

“No.”

“What do you do?”

“Move away?” Fingon suggests. “Tell them, please don’t do that.”

Anaire gives him a quick peck on the cheek. She unfurls the blanket at the foot of the bed and wraps him in it, the way she knows he likes. Once cocooned in the soft blanket, she kisses his forehead again. “Amil loves you so much, Finno.”

Fingon smiles widely. “I love you, too.”

“Good night, Finno.”

“Good night, amil.”


	4. Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halfway through Kindergarten, Fingon discovers he has a superpower. Fluff.

In Kindergarten, Fingon discovers he has a superpower: he can run faster and longer than any kid his age.

It starts in PE class when their coach informs them that today they would all do their best to run a whole mile. “It’s okay if you don’t run the whole mile, but I want you do to your best,” their coach tells them. Fingon is nervous. He doesn’t know how long a mile is, but it sounds long, and he knows he likes running, but he’s not sure if he’ll like running the whole mile. Coach takes them out to the track and explains that the track that winds around the soccer field and the playground and the basketball courts is a mile long, exactly. He lines them up, boys first, then girls. Fingon stays between the packs. “When I blow the whistle, you can go, but be careful, make sure you don’t push anybody.” They all nod. Fingon worries someone will push him.

Coach blows the whistle.

Initially, it’s the fear of getting pushed by someone that makes Fingon dash down the track, but seconds later, he’s gone from between the groups of girls and boys to being a few feet ahead of the next kid. His excitement at being first gives him the energy to keep going, even though he’s starting to breathe really fast. He ventures another glance back. He’s managed to widen the distance between him and the second place kid. He runs and runs and runs and runs and doesn’t even notice when he crosses the line he started at until Coach runs up from behind him and grabs his arm, “Fingon!” Fingon stops.

“Yeah?” he pants.

“You can stop now,” the Coach tells him, sounding amused.

Fingon frowns. “Do I have to?”

Coach stares at him. “You want to keep running?” he asks doubtfully.

Fingon nods. He likes it. It’s like being in a car, except driving himself. “Can I?”

Coach shrugs. “I guess so, but don’t worry about going so fast. You made better time that I’ve pretty much ever seen a six year old make.”

“I’m five,” Fingon corrects. “I’m five and a half. I started school early,” he explains.

“Okay. Well, if you start feeling tired, you should definitely stop.”

“Okay.” He keeps running.

Two rounds around the track later, and Fingon finally decides he’s tired and slumps against the nearest tree. To his disappointment, he’s landed himself next to some of the boys who have been mean to him because Fingon uses pink and purple in his drawings, and those boys are stupid and think boys should only paint with boy colors like blue and green and brown. He watches warily as one of them approaches him, except the other boy is grinning.

“You run really fast!” the boy says, standing in front of him.

Fingon shrugs. He is proud of himself for being able to run faster than everyone else, but his dad tells him it’s not okay to brag, so he decides to not say anything.

“Do you want to be friends?” the boy asks him. “If you’re my friend, you can play kickball on my team tomorrow. I bet you’ll score a lot of points.” Fingon looks at him. This boy has done nothing but be mean to Fingon since the first day of Kindergarten, and Fingon wants to say no. But no one has ever asked him to play on their team before, much less be his friend, and Fingon decides it might be better to have a friend who is sometimes mean than have no friends at all.

“Okay,” Fingon says, keeping his voice nonchalant. “We can be friends.”

The boy grins and gives him a high five. “Awesome! I’ll go tell the other guys. We’re totally gonna win tomorrow!” The boy dashes away back to the picnic table where the other boys are, and Fingon smiles to himself. Today has been the best day ever. He discovered he has a superpower, and he made a new friend.


	5. Dress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon wants to wear a dress to his Kindergarten graduation. His parents are less enthused about the idea.

Fingon scrunches his eyebrows as tightly as can be and balls his fists at his sides. Words are failing him, and his parents need to understand how angry he is. “You said I could choose whatever I want!” he repeats. He tries to keep his voice down, as to not make a scene in this public place, but his frustration makes the words come out louder than he intended. A couple of other shoppers glance at them, but quickly return to their own business. Fingon returns his glare to his parents, who look at each other for guidance.

Fingon doesn’t understand. This is simple. They told Fingon he would get to choose his Kindergarten graduation outfit. He chose – and now they’re saying no. To add insult to injury, they are having one of those silent adult conversations, the ones where they raise their eyebrows and widen their eyes and shrug their shoulders—and don’t say anything.

But they said he could have anything he wanted!

He’s old enough to know better than to scream or cry—he’s not a baby like Turgon—but he is young enough to plop down on the ground and sit criss-cross-applesauce, a silent indication that if the adults want him to move, they will either concede to his request or force him to his feet. He keeps the glare on his face, but his parents have hardly noticed him. They keep making faces at each other, communicating in that silent way that parents do, and on any other occasion, Fingon would try to understand.

But his parents made a promise, and now they’re breaking it, and it’s not fair. 

Finally, his father turns to him, using that soft voice he uses sometimes, “Finno, buddy, we’re just trying to help you make a good choice.” Fingon maintains the glare. He has already made his choice; he made it a long time ago. He saw that dress the moment they walked past the dress section of the store, right at the very entrance. He knew the moment he saw this dress that that was what he wanted to wear to graduation. He would have said as much to his parents, too, if they hadn’t completely ignored him when he tried tugging on their sleeves to go in that direction! Instead, they wasted time going to the boring section with all the suits in all the boring colors. They said he could choose anything – why would he choose some boring dark blue, or black, or grey suit? Even the ties at this store were boring. Ties could be fun. His dad had some nice ties—purple, baby blue, even one with dinosaurs—but the ones at this store were red, navy, white, and a couple greens, which Fingon might have consented to wear, because green is a nice color, but he saw the dress first. He wanted the dress most. He chose it.

“You said I could choose,” Fingon repeats stubbornly, emphasizing the “I.” “You promised.” Tears of frustration start to well in the corners of his eyes. Why can’t they see that this matters to him? Why won’t they just let him have the dress? He’s not asking to stay up until midnight or eat cake for dinner; he just wants to wear a pretty dress to graduation instead of some boring suit!

“Finno, we just…” Anairë looks torn. “We just don’t want the other kids to be mean to you.” Surprised by her words, Fingon forgets to keep frowning and blinks away his tears. What does that have to do with anything? He stares, waiting for her to explain herself. “I mean, you wouldn’t want them to call you names during your graduation, would you?” Anairë continues. “We want you to have a really good day.”

Fingon looks back at the bright yellow dress he wants. It’s bright like the yellow crayons they use to draw the sun in class. It’s not a boy color, but the kids in his class gave up long ago on trying to tease Fingon into using just boy colors. Sure, whenever they have to interact with someone outside of his class, he gets weird looks, but, in his class, everyone knows that the winning team at recess is going to have Fingon on it – and at the end of the day, winning is more important than whether or not Fingon uses pink and purple in his artwork.

“They won’t care,” Fingon shrugs.

“I told you not to encourage him,” Fingolfin mutters.

Fingon looks up at his father, confused. Encourage him to what? His fists clench again, frustrated by the lack of explanations. His parents restricted his clothing choices before, but last time they explained why: the school rules say that only girls can wear skirts; Fingon is classified as a boy, so he must wear the shirt and pants uniform that boys are supposed to wear. He understood this. There are rules, and rules are meant to be followed—and, after all, pants have pockets, and pockets are useful for carrying his pencils. Are there some days where he wishes he could wear a skirt and have it swish around him? Absolutely. Did he ever throw a tantrum about it? No, because his parents had a reasonable explanation as to why not.

But there was no rule about who got to wear what on graduation day, because you don’t have to wear a uniform that day because it’s a special day – and he’s not going to need a pencil at graduation, right? And his parents—

His parents said he could choose whatever _he_ wanted. 

He looks at his mother for support. He knows he confuses his dad sometimes. He can see the uneasiness in his father’s eyes when Amil paints his nails or lets him try on her wigs. When Amil told him, laughing, that Fingon had tried on her heels only to fall on his face, his dad only managed an uncomfortable smile. When Fingon tried to cross his legs at the dinner table like his mother, Atya gave him a funny look and asked him why he did that, and wasn’t it an uncomfortable way to sit?

His father got that same funny look on his face when Fingon declared he didn’t want to wear anything here, but that there was a dress he wanted to try on at the front of the store. “We can go to a different store,” Fingolfin offered. Fingon declined.

Looking his mother straight in the eye, Fingon says, “Amil, you said, ‘Finno, we’re so proud of you; we’re gonna let you choose your graduation outfit, whatever you want.’”

Anairë look at him for a few moments, her lips form a sad smile that Fingon doesn’t quite understand. She looks back at Fingolfin. “You know he’s stubborn as a mule.”

“He’s going to get eaten alive,” Fingolfin replies, rubbing at his temples.

Fingon frowns in confusion. Eaten alive? Gross. But also, by who?

Amil turns and gives him a small, uncomfortable smile. “Well, it’s all a moot point isn’t it, until we see if it actually fits you.”

Fingon’s eyes go wide as his grin, and he jumps into his mother’s arms. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” he squeals. He leaps up and grabs the dress from the rack, running to the dressing room before they can change their mind.


	6. Graduate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day of Fingon's Kindergarten graduation, Fingon may not be the only one to graduate.

Fingon can’t resist the urge to hop in front of the mirror, watching with glee as the yellow fabric bounces around him. His hair has grown almost an inch up, forming curls that bounce when he jumps. From the corner of the room, Anairë chuckles. “Stay still, Finno, I want to get a picture of you.” Fingon turns around and gives her a bright smile, as she points her cell phone at him. The moment she puts it away and turns her attention to the mirror, Fingon resumes his happy dance. They don’t have to be at school until 10AM today, so he got to sleep in; he’s wearing the dress he wanted for graduation; and at 11AM, he’s going to get his first ever diploma.

Fingolfin walks in, dressed, except for the bright yellow tie hanging from his shoulders. Fingon stares up at him. The tie matches Fingon’s dress exactly. “The babysitter is here,” Fingolfin informs Anairë. He looks down to his eldest. “You look very pretty, Finno,” his Atya says sincerely with a smile.

Fingon beams. “Thank you!” He hugs his Atya’s leg tightly, then lets go. “When are we leaving?”

“As soon as the babysitter settles in,” Anairë promises. She’s putting on earrings, and Fingolfin watches her for a moment, before returning his gaze to Fingon.

Much to Fingon’s surprise, his Atya asks, “Finno, do you want to get your ears pierced like Amil?”

Anairë drops the earring. She stares at Fingolfin, then blinks, and picks up the earring. She watches Fingon through the mirror.

Fingon considers it, then wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. “No.”

Fingolfin seems intrigued, but he replies easily, “Okay.”

The ride to school is filled with Fingon’s chatter. It’s a relief to him that he’ll see all of these kids next year; he has a lot of friends; he likes the first grade teachers; he’ll still get to each lunch first. When Fingolfin finishes parking, he kills the engine, then turns to Fingon, who immediately falls silent at the sight of his father’s serious expression. “Hey, buddy, whatever happens in there, you remember the golden rule, okay?” Fingon frowns, but he nods. Fingolfin’s eyes shine. “And remember that we love you, and we’re proud of you, and we’re so happy you’re our child.” Fingon squirms a little in his seat. Atya never calls him “child.” He always says, “son.”

Fingon isn’t sure how he feels about this development.

But he sees one of his friends getting out of their parent’s vehicle and the thought vanishes from his mind, and he practically jumps out of the car with Fingolfin and Anairë panicked, jumping with him and telling him to slow down. They walk into the school—well, his parents walk, Fingon skips—and Fingon notices everyone is looking at him.

He knows why, but he feigns ignorance. “It’s a really pretty color, isn’t it?” he remarks to one of the parents of his friend who keeps staring at him. The woman smiles at him, but it’s an awkward smile. His friend groans.

“Astaldo, why didn’t you say you were going to wear yellow? The whole soccer team would’ve gotten yellow ties to match!”

Fingon grins. “Sorry, didn’t think of that.”

“Astaldo?” Anairë comments with a raised eyebrow after they’ve parted.

Fingon shrugs but looks pleased. “I forgot to bring something to show and tell, so I told them my middle name, and I told them it means brave. And then I climbed a really big tree to get the ball out and then everyone started calling me Astaldo since it means brave. It was a really big tree. I was scared—but I got the ball down.” Anairë laughs, and she holds his hand, as they walk towards his father who was chatting with the school principal.

Well, at first Fingon thought they were chatting, but as they approach, he tightens onto his mother’s hand. Something is wrong. When his father is angry, he doesn’t yell. He starts speaking in a tight voice, tight like walking across a tightrope, say one wrong thing, and you’re in for it. That’s the voice he’s using with the principal. His mother stops them in their tracks, but they are close enough that Fingon hears—and he hears that voice.

“I refused to apologize or repent for allowing my child to dress as he wishes for his day of celebration,” Fingolfin hisses.

“I am not asking for an apology or penance, Mr. Nolofinwion,” the principal replies, his own voice even. “I merely expected a greater touch of consideration on you and your wife’s part to educate your child on expected cultural norms, before the day of celebration is detracted from… I can see we are not of like mind. Let me be blunt: if you chose to bring your son to an event dressed in that, fashion, the school cannot be held accountable for the reactions of its community members, and I would hate for your son to have a poor experience at this school.”

Anairë tries to get him to walk away, but Fingon pulls her back, rooted to the spot: the tips of Fingolfin’s ears are red. His Atya has only ever spanked him once in his life and that time, the tips of his ears were red. Fingon needs to hear, needs to see, needs to know how his father will react.

“And I merely expected a greater touch of consideration from a place charged with inspiring, uplifting, and educating young minds for a young child who is trying to explore his identity. Anything less—do not interrupt me,” Fingolfin’s glare makes Fingon tremble. “Anything less is unacceptable for any such institution of learning and growing, and I am flabbergasted to be having this conversation with a school official in which I my son, my child’s well-being is being threatened – do not dare deny it, you homophobic fool. This school should be bending over backwards to ensure that students like my son are treated with the utmost respect; it is your responsibility to provide a safe space for children to learn, and instead I come to my son, my child’s graduation to find that the _children_ here are better behaved than the adults!

“Not a single child has so much as batted an eyelash at my son, my child’s outfit. None. Instead, a wonderful young boy complimented my son and lamented that he did not share which color he would be wearing so that his friends might wear it also, in solidarity, but you—an educator, a well-educated adult have the gall, the audacity to come up to me and accuse me of not knowing what is right for my child and threatening me to keep him in line? I will not stand for it.”

The next part was so quiet, Fingon had to strain to hear his father’s words: “You know who I am, and I will be writing both to the school board and to our city council, and if I have to testify to the damn’ council, if I have to bring this to a national level, so help me, Eru, believe me I will. But you will not, you will not, and you will never again threaten my child and his well-being, and, to me, that means my son stays here with his friends, and you go.”

The principal stares silently at Atya, but Fingolfin turns and stalks away. Fingon stares at him in wonder, as he approaches, imagining his Atya to be like the brave heroes in the stories he reads. Fingon has never interacted with the principal until today, really, and the principal was one of the ones who stared at him. Fingon didn’t think this was such a big deal, but to hear his father come to his defense, regardless…

Upon reaching his wife and child, Fingolfin reaches out his hand towards Fingon. “Ready to graduate, buddy?”

Fingon grins and takes his father’s hand.

No one else comments on his appearance. He walks up the steps to the stage to grab his diploma and take his picture, grinning at his mother and father who cheer loudly from the audience along with his friends and their families. He presents his diploma proudly to his parents, and they go out to eat at a nice restaurant, and chat some more about summer and first grade. They get home and relieve the babysitter, and Fingon busies himself with playing at blocks with Aredhel, whose chubby little fingers can hardly hold the blocks, until Atya says it’s time for Aredhel’s bedtime story, and Amil takes Turgon to the dining room table for his milk.

Normally, Fingon joins Aredhel for the story, but today, he has an important question to ask his Amil, so he follows her into the dining room instead. Fingon has no patience, and the moment his father is out of earshot, he blurts: “Why does Atya keep calling me child?”

Anairë frowns. “You are only six years old.”

“No,” Fingon groans. “Like, why does Atya say I’m his child and not his son.”

Anairë is silent for a while. Then, she finally responds: “There are two meanings for the word ‘graduate,’ you know?” Fingon cocks his head to the side. “One is like the one you did today, getting your diploma, but graduate can also mean to change, change slowly, but change.” She pauses and looks meaningfully at his father who is reading on the couch. “I don’t think you’re the only one who graduated today, Finno,” she says with a soft smile.

Fingon looks at his dad. His dad who fought the school principal for him, who seemed to finally accept that his child likes wearing dresses and can look pretty in them. His father, who loves him. Fingon doesn’t really understand what his mother means, but he knows that even though his dad isn’t calling him his son anymore, he is loved all the same—maybe even more. He hugs his mother tightly and buries his face against her side, happy.

A/N: Don’t mess with Fingolfin and little Finno. Fingolfin will end you.


	7. Like

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon's first-ever writing assignment in 1st grade

I like…

_Dogs_

_Ice crem_

_Sumer_

_Soccer_

_Music class_

I don’t like…

_Hamstrs_

_Brocoli_

_Winter_

_I like sports_

__________________

Fingon looks up at his classmates who painstakingly form their letters, proud of himself for being the closest one to done in their first ever writing task in first grade. He rereads his list, confident in his answers. He does like dogs and ice cream and summer and soccer and music class. He doesn’t like hamsters, or broccoli, or winter, but he doesn’t know a sport he doesn’t like, so he just wrote, “I like sports.” But in the last blank, Fingon has to write something he doesn’t like about school.

He frowns. What doesn’t he like about school? Fingon likes his reading class and math class and computer class and music class. The teachers are usually pretty nice, and even when they’re not, he knows his class was bad. His school is pretty and looks new. The walls are all bright colors that help you figure out which corridor you’re in, like the blue corridor is the Kindergarten corridor, and the green corridor is the 1st grade corridor. Recess is a lot of fun, and he knows most of the kids. The cafeteria usually has pizza or chicken nuggets and even chocolate milk, so Fingon really can’t complain about the food. He looks about the classroom, the artwork from years prior decorating the walls, the reading rug and the number corner, the alphabet parallel to the ceiling, the clusters of desks about the room, and finally, his eyes fall to the hall passes next to the door.

One pink (for girls) and one blue (for boys). He contemplates them.

He just doesn’t like it when the teachers tell them to line up boy, girl, boy, girl. Or when the teachers say, “We’re doing boys versus girls today!” Or when they say that at lunch, you have to sit boy, girl, boy, girl.

He is different than the boys in his classes, because they all think being a boy is the best thing, but Fingon doesn’t. (During recess last year, one of the boys did not want a girl on their team, and said loudly to everyone, “Boys are faster than girls. We play better.” Fingon didn’t think this was true, so he said he wanted the girl on his team, and the girl played.)

He knows it doesn’t make sense, but he just doesn’t feel like a boy. (His atya laughed when he said that last time, and jokingly asked, “What does it feel like to be a boy?” Fingon knew Atya was laughing at him, so he stopped talking, but he also wasn’t sure. What did it feel like to be a boy? He wasn’t sure.)

He lines up without arguing and joins the boys’ team without complaining, but he knows he doesn’t belong there. (Once, in kindergarten, he didn’t move from his seat, and the teacher asked, “Is everything alright? Remember, boys go to that side of the room.” Fingon knew where the boy side of the room was, and he was well-aware that the stupid thing between his legs means he is a boy, but he didn’t want to move there.)

Fingon scowls at the paper. “I know I have the best writers in whole school,” the teacher says loudly, emphasizing “whole.” “You all are working so hard. I know we’re going to finish this when the big hand on the clock gets to 9.” Fingon looks up at the big clock near the door. The big hand is close to the 9.

He looks back down at the blank line. He doesn’t know how to write down all these feelings, so instead, he writes:

Being a boy 

He whispers the sentence to himself, “I don’t like being a boy.”

The girl across from him frowns with some surprise, and Fingon quickly looks down. But he smiles into the crook of his elbow.

Yes, that’s it. That’s exactly what he’s trying to say.

He doesn’t like being a boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never taken prompts before, but I'd be curious to: so if you'd like to submit an ask (prompt) on Tumblr for this Fingon headcanon feel free to submit an ask on Tumblr (same username as my AO3).


	8. Reckless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon gets in trouble for being reckless. To no one's surprise, he ignores his teacher's threats.

**Reckless**

In his defense, it was a dare. Not any random kind of dare. It was an “I triple dog dare you” dare. And it was an “I triple dog dare you” from one of the most annoying boys in first grade, and no teachers were watching, so he had been sure he wasn’t going to get in trouble.

“Findekáno, do you have the slightest idea how reckless that was?” his teacher exclaims. She’s crouching low over him, her eyes furious. She won’t let him move because his knee and his hands are badly scraped, but she didn’t have a big enough band aid, so Elenwë, the class’ goody two shoes, to get some big band aids from the nurse. He looks away from her, scowling. “Findekáno, look at me.” He looks up, jaw clenched. She’s exaggerating. It hurt a lot when he landed, and it’s bleeding more than he expected, but it was so fun.

For a few seconds, he flew! Like a bird. Like a plane. Like his body was gone, and he was just soaring, weightless.

“You are never doing that again. If I see you try that again, I won’t let you swing ever again,” she threatens.

Fingon opens his mouth to protest, but immediately closes it at her glare. He scowls again. It’s not his fault he’s so good at jumping from a swing that he landed in the asphalt basketball court instead of the softer surface of the swing set. Didn’t he deserve an award for that or something? Farthest flier? Successful swinger? Joyful jumper?

Instead, his teacher glares and tells him, “That was incredibly reckless. You could have gotten seriously hurt. What if you hit your head? What would I tell your mother if I had to call her and tell her we had to take you to the hospital because broke your neck jumping from the swings?”

Fingon resists the urge to roll his eyes. “I won’t,” he promises. “I was smart. I put my hands up.” He proudly shows her his scraped hands from where, realizing he was going to hit the concrete, instinct took over, and he managed to put his hands to break his fall. She stares at him – and then he realizes that that was one of those adult things where they ask a question, but you’re not really supposed to answer.

“Reckless,” she mutters again. Elenwë comes back with the large band-aids and wipes from the nurses’ office, and the teacher yanks open the wipes. “This might hurt a bit,” she warns, wiping off the blood from Fingon’s knees. It stings, but Fingon vows not to so much as whimper. Instead, he stares the blood that collects onto the wipe, staining it a deep red. When the teacher looks up, he holds his head high. She’s not impressed. She just grabs a big band-aid from Elenwë, opens it, and slaps it onto Fingon’s knee. Fingon grimaces but holds true to his vow.

The teacher stands up. “Don’t do that ever again. If I catch you, what’s gonna happen?”

“You won’t let me swing again,” Fingon says. But he notes that she says if she catches him. But… she doesn’t have to catch him, right?

“Good.”

Elenwë looks at him. “Did you jump from the swing?”

“Yeah.”

“And you made it all the way over here?” she asks, looking impressed.

Fingon nods, grinning. Elenwë whistles. “I’m gonna do it again,” he whispers. Elenwë is a goody two shoes, but she’s good at keeping her mouth shut.

Elenwë’s eyes light up.

She and Fingon swing softly for the rest of recess, but when the teacher gets distracted by another injury, Elenwë quickly says, “Now, now!” She jumps off her swing and gives Fingon a hard push. He laughs gleefully, as she pushes him again and again, higher and higher. The clouds get closer, the wind streaks across his face, and he can’t stop smiling. He throws a glance at the teacher again; he’s almost at the right height, and the teacher is still looking at the other boy.

Elenwë pushes him one more time, and he lets go.

He flies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heavy angst coming... Hope you enjoyed the fluff!


	9. Fish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingon wakes up one bright summer morning, only to find out that his Atya is taking Turgon (and Finrod) fishing-- and didn't even bother to invite him. (Or, if this fic took place in bookverse, this would be the chapter that follows Fingon's thoughts as he's crossing the Helcaraxe. It's dark and angsty.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Rumination (when you can't stop thinking negative thoughts, and you go into a downward spiral). This is a very angsty chapter with an unfortunate amount of self-loathing that go on the narration of Fingon's thoughts.

Fingon wakes up early one summer morning with a smile on his face. He rolls around in the blanket, languishing in the knowledge that there’s no need to get up, get dressed, and go to school. He’s free to come down for breakfast whenever—or free to curl into his blankets and pretend it’s not yet morning. Maybe today he’ll watch cartoons for a bit, maybe Atya will take them to the park, maybe Aredhel will want to play soccer, or maybe Turgon will want to play Legos. Fingon throws off his covers, grinning. There are so many maybes today, all of them infinitely perfect possibilities for an awe-inspiring adventure. He yawns widely, stretching out his arms wide, and hops out of bed. Upon opening the door to his room, he pauses at the sound of his little brother’s voice.

“How many are we gonna catch?”

Catch? Are Turgon and Atya going to the park to play ball right now? Fingon hustles down the stairs, not bothering to grab hold of the railing, as he hears his Atya reply, “Depends. Sometimes a lot, sometimes a little.” Fingon slides into the kitchen with a large, toothy grin on his face, ready for whatever game they’re going to go play, despite the fact that he’s still in his dinosaur pajamas.

He was going to trill a good morning, but instead of seeing a ball and the running shorts he expected, Fingon finds his father sitting at the table with a morning cup of coffee dressed in jeans, t-shirt, and a funny-looking vest with lots of pockets. His greeting vanishes from the tip of his tongue, and instead he frowns at Turgon who sits on his father’s knee, pouring over a book with illustrations of fish and lots and lots of words Fingon is confident his little brother can’t read.

Fingon cocks his head to the side, bemused at this turn of events. “Morning, Finno,” his dad greets with a smile, before taking another swig of the vile black liquid Fingon once, stupidly, asked to try. Turgon doesn’t look up from the book, his pudgy little fingers tracing the pictures.

“What are you doing?” Fingon asks, glancing at the green box and fishing rods next to them. Fingon can already hazard a guess, but he’s never seen this equipment out before.

“Atya’s gonna take me fishing!” Turgon shares happily, looking up briefly from his book. “We’re gonna catch a lot of fish today!” He shoots a smile at Fingon before nuzzling Fingolfin.

Fingon feels his jaw clench at Turgon’s first sentence: Atya is going to take _me_ fishing. Fingon knows he’s supposed to love Turgon. Turgon is, after all, his little brother. Sure, he keeps to himself a lot, which Fingon doesn’t understand, but Turgon is generally cute, especially now that he doesn’t wake everyone up in the middle of the night with his crying. He’s usually nice, except when he gets into one of his silent moods. He’s not great at sharing his toys, but at least he doesn’t break Fingon’s toys like Aredhel used to when she was his age. Really, there’s no good reason for Fingon to dislike his little brother.

So why does Fingon hate him so much?

Fingon scowls, prompting a slightly raised eyebrow from his father that only succeeds in furthering Fingon’s anger. Fingon didn’t even know father knew how to fish, and even though Fingon is twice his brother’s age, Atya never asked Fingon if _he_ wanted to go fishing. “Finno,” his father says with all-knowing smile. “Don’t get upset. We both know you hate fish. Why would you want to go fishing?”

Fingon looks again at his little brother who remains oblivious to Fingon’s jealousy, as he enthusiastically flips through the pages of the fishing book, trying to read the words on the page, sounding them out letter by letter, just like Fingon used to—and even though Fingon remembers what it’s like to sound out words, he feels a flash of irritation at watching his younger brother do so.

His father is still giving him _that_ look, and Fingon looks away, still scowling. His father is right. Fingon hates fish. They’re boring pets. They’re slimy, and the water they live in smells gross. And fish tastes gross, too, all weirdly chewy and fishy smelling. But he’s still hurt by the lack of invitation. Atya could have at least asked him if he wanted to go. He looks back at his father, then glances again at Turgon (who’s reading “salmon” wrong), and his rage reaches a boiling point. “Fine, then!” Fingon spits out, “take your favorite and go, see if I care!” He stomps away and runs back up the stairs, pausing at the top of the stairs and hoping his father will follow him, but Atya doesn’t. Atya doesn’t even call his name to reprimand him.

With an annoyed huff, he stalks back into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him, and jumps back into bed, willing himself not to cry.

I wish he had never been born, Fingon thinks viciously.

Then his tears start to flow, and he hiccups into the pillowcase.

I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that, I didn’t mean that, I’m sorry, he thinks over and over again. But it’s too late. He’s a terrible older – he flinches, and the tears fall faster in his frustration. Brother is the wrong word, wrong word, wrong word—but he doesn’t have the right word. To be a brother you have to be a boy. And Fingon is not a boy.

What even is he?

He drags the blanket over himself, hiding beneath the covers, as if they could shield from the painful realities of his existence. It seems like so long since Kindergarten when he wore a dress to graduation; so much time has passed since first grade when he wrote that he didn’t like being boy; and now, he knows better. It’s not that he doesn’t like being a boy. He just isn’t one, and no one understands, and they treat him like he’s the one who doesn’t get it. They tell him that he has a penis, and therefore he is a boy. Boys have penises, and girls have a thing called a vagina that isn’t a penis, and he’s not sure what that looks like, but he knows the penis thing between his legs is wrong. It’s not supposed to be there.

Fingon was never supposed to be a boy. He just came out wrong.

He muffles his howl of pain by sticking the blanket into his mouth.

Everything about him is wrong, wrong, wrong. His body is wrong. He can’t control his temper even though he’s eleven and he’s old enough to know better than to slam doors and throw tantrums, but he’s upstairs hiding in his covers like some stupid little kid, crying into his pillows, and wishing his Atya would come make him feel better.

But Atya won’t. He won’t, because Fingon a terrible older something to Turgon—and Turgon is his favorite. Turgon is the little boy his father always wanted. Turgon who is always serious and never cries. Turgon who will only play dress up if he’s the prince saving the princess. Turgon who keeps his hair short and only wears blue, green, brown, and black. Turgon who rough houses and calls himself a boy like he deserves a gold star for being so.

Fingon lets himself whimper into the blanket, trying to take deep breaths like the counselor at school taught him. He breathes in until his cheeks are so puffy, he thinks they might explode and then he exhales. He does it once, twice, three times, and the pain lessens, and he manages to poke his head from underneath the covers. Just when he thinks he might find the courage to go back downstairs and apologize to his Atya and his brother, to swallow his pride and ask if he can come, too, and to make an extra effort to be a good older something to Turgon today—the doorbell rings.

He blinks in confusion, wiping away tears. Who would come visit them this early in the morning?

“Turgon! Hi, Uncle Nolo!” Finrod’s loud voice and cheerful laughter float to the second floor, and Fingon feels the lump return to his throat. Hot tears of outrage come to his eyes.

_Finrod_ got invited. _Finrod_ , who is even littler than Turgon, gets to go fishing with his Atya and his uncle and his brother— and his Atya never even told him this was happening. He curls more tightly around his pillow, not even sure why this hurts so much but it does. He can hear their joy downstairs, the excitement in Finrod and Turgon’s voices, the squeals of delight at the promise of donuts, and Fingon finally puts words to the hurt: everyone has a place but him.

Everyone belongs but him.

He’d be allowed to go on this fishing trip, if he asked, he knows that. But it’s the same sort of thing as when Aredhel and Amil go shopping, and he’s allowed to go, if he asks, but he’s never invited, never assumed to be part of the group.

I don’t belong; I never belong. The litany of self-doubt and disdain starts again in his mind, and Fingon buries his head in his pillow, trying to hide from it, but it’s all in his head and he can’t—and then there’s a knock at the door. 

“Fingon!” Finrod’s voice comes through the door in a singsong. Fingon stays silent, but Finrod knocks harder. “Fingon?” His little cousin opens the door, and Fingon curls into his bed sheet, unwilling to let Finrod see his tear-streaked face. “Why are you hiding underneath the covers?” His cousin’s voice sounds confused.

“Go away,” Fingon says, immediately regretting his decision to speak when his voice gives away his tears. Finrod gasps a little, and the next thing Fingon knows, Finrod has pulled away the covers from Fingon’s face and is standing next to his bed, stroking his hair.

“Are you okay? Do you want a hug?” Finrod asks. His bright blue eyes are wide and concerned. Fingon tries to glare at him, but his eyes are puffy and red, and mostly, he just looks miserable.

Fingon takes another deep breath, trying to calm down a little before he answers. Finrod is a little younger than Turgon, possibly the nicest kid on the planet, and Fingon, even on his worst days, couldn’t have—doesn’t want to have—the heart to be unkind to the little blond. “I’m fine,” Fingon grunts in a tone that says he’s anything but.

Finrod looks at him for a moment, then brightly asks, “Do you wanna come with us on the fishing trip? It’ll be super cool if you come; it’ll be our boys-only adventure!”

And there it is again! That frustrating, “we’re all boys here, and that’s the best thing ever” that makes Fingon want to scream.

Breathe in, count to 5…breathe out, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.

Finrod isn’t trying to be mean. Finrod isn’t trying to be mean. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t. “I don’t want to go,” Fingon snaps and hides himself back under the covers. There’s silence for a moment, then he hears Finrod say softly, “Okay, I hope you feel better, Fingon.” Then the door opens and closes again, and he hears Finrod loudly say, “He says he doesn’t want to come!” Then there’s more shuffling and bustling and laughter and finally the front closes and the car engine sound gets further and further away.

Fingon tries to practice his breathing again, but he ends up gasping for breath instead through his tears. He can see it in his head: Atya and Uncle Ara and Turgon and Finrod laughing and smiling and eating donuts at the lake while they wait for the fish to bite, and they’ll tell stories and play games.

Eventually, they’ll catch fish, and it’ll wriggle in the air, gasping for breath just like Fingon. A fish out of water.

That’s what he is. He is a fish, gasping for air, suffocating slowly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the only chapter in which I will get this deep into Fingon's sense of self-loathing. I'm not interested in writing a fic that expounds upon the mental strain that can be caused by not fitting into society's boxes: one chapter seems necessary for readers to understand my Fingon; more than that seems excessive. I think you get the point as to how Fingon is feeling as he's approaching puberty, and Fingon's (re)actions in future chapters will make a lot more sense if you keep this chapter in mind. 
> 
> Fluff coming soon (including meeting Angrod and Aegnor!)


	10. Stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fingolfin takes Aredhel and Fingon camping, tells them a little about the uncle they've never met, and teaches them a few constellations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's your fluff. Please excuse occasionally annoying six/seven-year-old Aredhel.

**Stars**

Though it’s only early autumn, the cold begins seep through Fingon’s jacket, as soon as the sun begins to set. He shivers slightly, stuffing his hands into the pockets of the jacket, while his father stacks the logs for the evening’s fire in a log cabin structure. Fingon watches him intently, itching to help, but obediently stays seated on the thick log next to the fire. Aredhel scooches closer to him, huddling near him for warmth. Fingon wraps his arm around her, pulling her closer, and Aredhel lets her head fall against his shoulder, her hair tickling his cheek.

A swirl of mixed emotions rises within him at the sensation.

He hadn’t wanted to come on this trip. As much as Fingon adores the outdoors, the thought of being with only family—without the comforting privacy of his room and his books—made him anxious. What would they talk about? What would they do all day with no one but each other for company? Atya promised swimming, soccer, and hamburgers and s’mores, promises that lured Fingon into coming without a fuss, and throughout the day, Fingon had felt his anxiety wax and wane but mostly swirl beneath his skin, invisible to his father and little sister. Their current physical position brings in a new wave of it, but Fingon shuts it down by playing happy memories from earlier today, reassuring himself that he does not need to do anything further; she is happy with him.

His father’s words interrupt his thoughts. “I think we’re ready to get this fire started!” Fingolfin announces with a grin.

Aredhel immediately peels away from Fingon. “Can I help? Can I help? I wanna light it!”

“No, I should get to light it! I’m older than you!” Fingon jumps up.

“Who cares! I asked first!” Aredhel retorts.

“But—”

“Keep arguing and neither of you will get to make a s’more,” Fingolfin cuts in. Fingon and Aredhel’s mouths drop open, but at a look from their father, they immediately close them and nod meekly. “Yes, sir,” Aredhel mutters. Satisfied, Fingolfin suggests, “You all can help by cutting up this cardboard into strips.” Fingon and Aredhel glance at the cardboard box that had had held their dinner ingredients, then at each other.

“Okay,” they chorus, unenthused but the threat of going to bed without s’mores restrains them from further protest. Fingolfin waits until they have a few strips ready, then tells them they can stand near the fire but not too close. Fingon watches, as Fingolfin tosses some dry leaves and small sticks they had collected earlier into the center of the pile, then gestures for Fingon to hand him a cardboard strip.

“What are you gonna do now, Atya?”

Fingolfin grins. “Light it.” He takes out a long lighter and holds the flame to the strip of cardboard until it catches. Both Aredhel and Fingon stare unblinkingly as their father tosses it into the fire, then frown when nothing immediately lights.

“This is boring,” Aredhel says. Fingon shoots her a dirty look, glancing at his father, who Fingon is certain will have something to say to that.

“Be patient,” Fingolfin admonishes. Fingon hears his sister’s soft sigh but ignores her, watching with fascination as the piece of cardboard curls and a leaf catches fire, smoke beginning to rise. Fingolfin grabs another piece of cardboard, lights it, and places it into the fire.

“How long will it take the big logs to catch?” Fingon asks.

Fingolfin shrugs slightly. “Depends, probably a couple of minutes,” he replies, lighting another piece of cardboard and tossing it in, “we’re lucky that there’s not a lot of wind, so the fire won’t get snuffed out.”

“I’m cold,” Aredhel complains, stuffing her hands into her pockets.

Fingon glares at her. “Stop being such a baby.”

“Fingon,” his father says in that “watch your mouth” voice.

Fingon huffs. Nowadays, he can’t say anything to Aredhel without someone getting mad at him. “’M sorry,” he mutters, not meaning it at all. When Fingolfin turns to the fire, Aredhel punches him on the arm, and then grins when Fingolfin reprimands, “Findekáno!” at the sight of the older sibling raising his hand to smack the younger.

“She started it!” Fingon protests.

“Aredhel, go get the s’mores supplies from the cabin. They’re on my bed.” Aredhel nods, only half-suppressing the smirk she sends Fingon’s way, before running to the cabin a few paces away from them. “Fingon, come here,” his father says quietly.

Fingon scowls but obeys, plodding over to his father.

“Do you want to try lighting a piece?” His father offers him the cardboard and the lighter. Fingon’s eyes bulge, and his father cracks a smile at the sight.

“Really?” Fingon asks, face lighting up immediately. Fingolfin nods, and Fingon quickly grabs the equipment.

“Hold it away from you,” Fingolfin instructs. “To turn the lighter on, you have to push forward the button at the top with your thumb and hold the trigger with your index finger.”

“It’s hard to move,” Fingon says, struggling to hold the top button down. Fingolfin chuckles slightly, which only encourages Fingon to push harder, and finally, a little flame lights up.

“Okay, now hold it, hold it… there you go! Toss it in there before your sister gets back,” Fingolfin winks. Fingon grins and walks up to the fire, letting his piece of cardboard fall into the center where much of the kindling has caught fire.

Then he gasps. “Atya! The big log at the bottom is burning now, too!”

“I got the stuff!” comes Aredhel’s voice, and Fingolfin quickly takes the lighter from Fingon’s hands.

“Thank you, Irissë,” Fingolfin replies. “Do you have a stick yet?” Aredhel shakes her head. “Fingon, go help your sister find a big stick for s’mores. Don’t go anywhere where I can’t see you, okay?”

“Yes, Atya,” Fingon replies, taking his sister by the hand, and together they walked to the trees that bordered their cabin, close enough to see their father glancing up at them from the fire. Aredhel lets go of his hand but stays near him, as she pokes about the bushes for a big stick. “I like it here,” she says suddenly.

“Me, too,” Fingon smiles.

“I wish I got to be outside like this more. I had fun today.” She pauses. “Sorry I hit you.”

Fingon shrugs. “It’s okay. It didn’t hurt.”

Aredhel looks at him with mock outrage, then grins. “Want me to make it hurt?”

Fingon looks over at their father who is no longer watching them so intently. He and Aredhel used to roughhouse a lot, except their parents would get upset with him, because he was older and, supposedly, a boy, and therefore might hurt her—as though anyone could actually hurt Aredhel. His little sister is indestructible, not to mention, she actually can pack a punch.

But Fingon is not one to acknowledge hurt. “Give it your best shot,” he dares. Aredhel grins and punches him on the shoulder, but Fingon smirks at her.

“Didn’t hurt,” he says proudly. They both glance at Fingolfin, who is rearranging some of the kindling. Aredhel punches him again, harder. “Mmm, weak,” he drawls. Aredhel huffs, bringing her little fist all the way back and punching much harder. Fingon grins. “Okay, I felt that one.” Aredhel beams.

“I’m gonna learn kung fu someday and beat you up,” she promises.

“You’re the world’s vicious-est little sister,” he laughs, eyes roaming the bases of trees for a nice marshmallow stick.

Aredhel raises an eyebrow. “That’s not a word.”

He doesn’t even bother to look up. “Is to.”

“Nu-uh.” Fingon’s eyes fall on the perfect stick, and he snatches it from the ground. Aredhel makes a noise of surprise. “Hey! I haven’t found one yet.”

“’Cause you weren’t looking,” Fingon sticks his tongue out at his sister. 

Aredhel rolls her eyes. “I’m gonna find an even bigger one than yours!” She begins to scout seriously now, walking slowly at the edge of the woods, and Fingon follows her dutifully. All the sticks seem too short or too thick or too thin, and Fingon watches as Aredhel’s frown deepens and her lower lip juts out. Stubbornly, she continues searching, until Fingon finally taps her on the shoulder.

“You can have mine,” he says, handing her his perfect s’more stick.

She frowns. “Are you sure?”

He nods. “I’ve had s’mores before. Plus, we can always share, right?”

Aredhel smiles, and Fingon feels like he’s seven again, helping his little sister score a goal on him, back when they used to be much better friends. “Yeah,” she replies, brightly. She holds out her hand, and Fingon grabs it, swinging them between their bodies; together, they march over to Fingolfin who watches them with a fond smile.

“Found some good sticks?”

“ _A_ good stick,” Fingon replies.

“Finno and I are gonna share,” Aredhel informs their father. Fingolfin nods.

“Okay, go get your marshmallow,” he nods towards the bag, and Aredhel and Fingon dash over gleefully.

“How many can we have?”

“Can we have ten?”

Fingolfin laughs. “No, you may not have ten s’mores.”

“But there’s a whole big bag of marshmallows!” Fingon protests.

“We could totally have ten each,” Aredhel adds.

“Let’s start with three each. You have to be able to fall asleep,” Fingolfin chides. “Eventually,” Fingon hears him mutter. He ignores his father’s words, too interested in impaling a few marshmallows onto his stick: after all, his father said he could have three s’mores—but he didn’t say how many marshmallows per s’more…

“I wanna hold it, I wanna hold it!” Aredhel bounces up and down, and Fingon begrudgingly passes her the stick and allows her to toast their marshmallows, watching intensely to ensure she doesn’t mess up and drop them. Fingolfin puts his arm around Fingon, giving him a gentle squeeze that makes him look up at his father’s smile. His Atya’s eyes shine, and Fingon nuzzles his father’s arm. Though no words pass between them, Fingon understands his father’s sentiment: he is being a very good older something to Aredhel, and his father is proud of him for it.

“This takes so long,” Aredhel says. “Can I just stick it in?”

“If you want a burnt marshmallow,” Fingolfin replies saucily.

Aredhel looks at Fingon, who shrugs. “Okay.” Then promptly sticks the marshmallows deep into the fire, and both she and Fingon grin when she pulls them back out, the marshmallows flaming at the top. Neither notes Fingolfin’s resigned sigh. “Go get the cookies and the chocolate, Finno,” she orders, and Fingon is too excited about the s’mores to care about his little sister bossing him around. Carefully, the two siblings work together to slide half the burnt marshmallow onto one graham cracker sandwich and half onto the other.

“Can we eat it now?” Aredhel asks, eyes shining. Fingolfin nods, looking slightly miffed at the sight of his children wolfing down a black burnt mess, chocolate getting all over the sides of their mouths. Fingon manages to stuff his entire s’more into his mouth, cheeks puffed, as he tries to chew around it and keep his mouth closed even as he grins at Aredhel, who, of course, immediately tries to stuff her entire sandwich into her mouth—but fails miserably.

“Findekáno, close your mouth when you chew,” Fingolfin reminds him, going off to grab his own marshmallow and hold it carefully over the fire. By now, night has really fallen, and Fingon notices that his father has become a little quieter even as his little sister chews noisily then licks her fingers with gusto to relieve them of any leftover chocolate and fluff.

“Atya, how did you learn to make a fire? Did your atar teach you?” Fingon blurts.

He doesn’t notice how Fingolfin tenses.

“No…” Fingolfin says slowly, looking into the fire rather than at his children. Fingon frowns slightly. Atya is normally more talkative than this; maybe he’s tired of them and wants to go to bed already. Fingon finishes chewing in silence, unease curling at the pit of his stomach.

But of course, Aredhel can’t read a room and latches onto Fingolfin’s shoulder. “Atya, can I please have that marshmallow? I wanna try one that’s not burnt!”

Fingolfin snorts, and Fingon breathes a little easier at the sight of his father’s amused look. “Yes, princess, you can have this one when it’s done. But you need to get your chocolate and crackers ready.”

“I liked it burned,” Fingon ventures, taking a seat next to his father on the long log, swaying back and forth, the palms of his hands curled around the wood.

“Your mother likes them burned, too,” Fingolfin replies, eyes never leaving the fire. “I had never even considered burning mine. My older brother was very strict about us toasting them to perfection.”

“I thought Uncle Ara is younger than you, Atya,” Aredhel says, bringing the crackers and chocolate to her father. Fingon looks at his father with interest; Aredhel is right, but he knows his father has another brother, who Fingon is pretty sure he’s never met before. Come to think of it, he’s not even certain he knows his other uncle’s name.

“He is,” Fingolfin confirms, holding out the marshmallow for Aredhel, who clamshells her cracker and chocolate around it and pulls the golden marshmallow off its stick with a wide grin on her face. Fingolfin grabs another marshmallow from the bag and offers the stick to Fingon, who takes it eagerly, then stuffs into the fire’s center.

“Who is our other uncle?” Fingon asks, pulling out his burning marshmallow, fascinated at how the fire burns different colors around it. He puffs on it to make the fire go out, then, realizing he forgot to grab crackers and chocolate, he just takes a bite directly, regretting it instantly as the hot marshmallow burns the roof of his mouth.

“Eww!” Aredhel groans. “Atya! Fingon got his nasty saliva all over it!”

Fingolfin laughs, mostly at Fingon’s expression of regret, as he opens his mouth, trying to cool the very hot marshmallow. “It’s okay, Irissë, the fire will get rid of any germs. And to answer your question, Fingon, it’s your Uncle Fëanor.”

“Fëanor?” Aredhel frowns. “I haven’t met him. How come he never visits like Uncle Ara does?”

Fingolfin pauses to grab another set of crackers and push the remaining marshmallow onto them, handing it to Fingon with a look. “Well, he is very busy with work. He is the head of the research department over at the company.” Fingon barely registers his father’s warning glance, too occupied with mulling over this newfound knowledge about his uncle: Atya is frequently busy with work as well, but he is always home for dinner with them, and he usually plays or reads to them over the weekend. Is Uncle Fëanor different? Why don’t they hang out? Atya always gets on him for playing with his friends instead of his brother and sister—so why doesn’t Atya spend time with his brother?

“Oh,” Aredhel says, already losing interest in the conversation. 

“Does he have any kids?” Fingon asks, wondering if Uncle Fëanor is what Amil would call “married to his work.” Fingolfin nods. “Are they bigger or younger than us?”

“Um, he has four boys. The oldest is a couple years older than you, and I think the second one is your age. I’m not sure about the other two.” 

“How come they never come over to play?” Fingon asks, his heart leaping at the thought of having a cousin his age. It’s not fair that Turgon gets Finrod, and Fingon only has Aredhel to play with. Aredhel is mostly fine, but sometimes she acts like a baby, and it can be annoying. “Can we invite them over to play?” 

“Well, I suppose we could,” Fingolfin sounds unsure. Fingon frowns at his father’s uncertainty. His Atya is always the one telling him to be nice to people. Isn’t it a nice thing to ask your cousins to come over to play? “They just live in a different… area.”

“Oh, they live too far away to come visit,” Fingon reasons. That must be it. Uncle Fëanor lives too far away for him and Atya to spend time together often.

“Something like that,” Fingolfin replies softly. Then, he clears his throat. “Want another s’more?”

“Yes!” they both say at the same time. Aredhel pouts. Fingon remembers his father’s earlier squeeze of approval, and quickly says, “It’s okay. Aredhel can get another one first!” Aredhel grins, and his father shoots him another smile before handing Aredhel her third marshmallow of the night.

“Last one for both you,” he reminds them, as he pops another marshmallow onto the stick for Fingon. Even though he wouldn’t have said no to more s’mores if he’d been allowed, Fingon finds he doesn’t mind the restriction so much. His back is a little cold, but despite that, as he leans closer against his father and watches his sister devour her last s’more of the night, Fingon feels himself really relax for the first time in a long time.

On accident, after licking the leftover chocolate from his fingers, he looks up at the sky.

The gasp escapes him. He jumps up and points to sky, now illuminated with thousand of stars, shining bright and bright and bright, all different colors, twinkling. Aredhel looks up now, too, equally enthralled by the view, and Fingon bounces a little with the sheer joy of seeing something so beautiful. Fingolfin grins, joining them in their gaze.

“That’s part of why I brought you all out here,” he says, standing up as well. “The stars are so much more beautiful out here.”

“How come it looks different than at home?” Aredhel asks, wonder evident in her tone.

“Well, there’s a lot of light pollution in the city. With all of the bright lights in the street on the houses, it makes it harder to see the night sky for what it really is,” Fingolfin tries to explain. The noise that Aredhel makes tells Fingon she didn’t understand a word of what their Atya just said, but Fingon gets it. He learned about light pollution in school already, how having so many lights in the city means that people can’t see the stars the anymore because their eyes are used to the brightness that they can’t see the natural glow of the stars. He had always assumed that you’d need a telescope to see so many, but he realizes now that he really has never seen the night sky without a plethora of artificial light surrounding him.

“The big one,” Fingolfin points, and Fingon follows his father’s finger: “That’s Earendil. And, then, see the three stars in a row over there?” Fingon nods eagerly. “Well, if you look close enough, it almost forms a person—that’s Menelmacar, the Swordsman of the Sky. Then…okay, see the kind of crooked line,” Fingolfin takes his hand and guides him to point.

“Yeah.”

“Okay, see how it goes down and then there’s one, two, three, four, almost like a box, like a ladle?”

“No…”

“Um… okay, well, that one’s the Valacirca.”

“I don’t see it, Atya,” Aredhel says.

Then it clicks. “Oh!” Fingon exclaims. “Yes! Yes! I see it! There are four that make a rectangle, Irissë, and then there’s a line—it does look exactly like a ladle.” He shares a look with his father, whose soft gaze holds him for a moment longer than normal, and Fingon smiles despite himself, feeling once more that night that he and his father have an unspoken, shared understanding: his father really does love him.

Hours later, after the fire has been put out, teeth have been brushed, and pajamas put on, Fingolfin tucks them into bed. There are only two beds in the cabin, and Fingolfin declared upon arrival that he would take the one nearest the door, while Aredhel and Fingon would share the one nearest the window; after such a joyful day, Fingon finds he rather likes it when Aredhel tugs on his arm and uses it as a pillow. Fingolfin’s mouth quirks, and he looks at them fondly, pulling up the blanket to their necks.

“I love you both very much,” he says, leaning down to kiss them on their foreheads.

“But me more, because I’m the only girl,” Aredhel smirks, turning to look at Fingon, who rolls his eyes, even as he thinks to himself that this is probably true. Fingon, after all, is the troublemaker in their family.

But there’s something in his father’s voice, a sort of steel, a sort of sadness that Fingon doesn’t recognize when his father replies firmly, “No. Absolutely not. I love both of you, and Turgon, equally. Always have, always will, no matter what.” Even Aredhel, who sometimes struggles with reading the room, nods seriously at this. Fingon stares at his father, trying to understand what this new tone is, what it means. But then Aredhel bids their father good night, and before Fingon figures it out, their father kisses them again, and goes to lie down on his bed, right next to theirs.

It’s eerily quiet, other than the sound of Aredhel’s soft snores, but Fingon finds he cannot fall asleep. Instead, he thinks of the shooting star they saw before they went to bed, while Aredhel begins to drool on his shirt sleeve. Now that the day’s activities have ended, he finds himself doubting once more. He wonders if he wished for the right thing, or it was selfish to wish for what he had wished for. Maybe he should have wished something else, something good for someone other than himself, something good for someone like his Atya who is so kind and so loving, who loves them equally even though Fingon imagines he’s not always an easy child to love. He glances over at his father’s bed over Aredhel’s hair and finds his father, eyes open, looking at them both. Atya smile slightly in the dark, that fond look still in his eyes. He holds his father’s gaze for a moment, then his father whispers, “Go to sleep, Finno. We’ve got an early morning tomorrow.”

Fingon stares for just a moment longer, nods, then closes his eyes and drifts off.

He dreams of shooting stars—and joy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to incorporate more of Fingon's interactions with family members -- anyone you want to see? Let me know!


	11. They

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first day of middle school is scary. There's lockers and tardies and three minutes to go from class to class--but at the end of the school day, Fingon meets someone who might make it all worth it. 
> 
> Who might give him the words he needs to exist.

**They**

Middle school is scary. The eighth graders are so much bigger than the sixth graders, and even by sixth grade standards, Fingon is quite short. The building isn’t labelled by pretty, colored corridors anymore. Instead, the hallways are plain white, covered in signs about what’ll happen if you’re caught with a cell phone and about the importance of respect and pendants from different colleges in the area and—stupidly—not a single sign about where science classes are or in which direction the bathroom is.

They tell them to go to the auditorium on the first day, where someone shouts at them that the expectation is that they get from class to class in three minutes but doesn’t tell them where to find their classes. Fingon gets handed a schedule and told to figure it out. For the first week, it’s okay if they’re a little late to class, but after that, they will be marked as tardy.

What does that even mean?

And then the lockers. Everyone gets one. You’re supposed to put your materials in there, but Fingon doesn’t understand how you could possibly open your locker to grab your things and still be on time to your class. Plus, he’s honestly kind of confused as to how the lockers work, so rather than making a fool of himself, he decides to just take his backpack with all his materials for the whole day. His backpack is super heavy, and he knows he looks like a complete dork walking around with a stuffed backpack, but he’d rather look like a dork than be late to class and be marked tardy (whatever that means).

Thankfully, he still knows some of the kids from his elementary school and together they figure it out. He eats lunch with them. They play at recess together, and Fingon notes with satisfaction that everyone remembers that they want him on their team. He finishes his last three classes of the day with little to note and decides it’s time to face his fears and try to open his locker so he doesn’t have to carry all these textbooks home.

He stares at the locker combination on his sheet, then looks at the knob of his locker. Now what? He looks around, but everyone else seems engrossed in their conversations. He scowls a little to himself. Okay.

“Do you need some help?”

He turns around, startled, and the weight of his backpack makes him fall on his butt. A couple of other kids snicker, but the woman in front of him just gives him a reassuring smile and holds out her hand.

“What’s your name?” she asks kindly. She looks like his mother; except she’s wearing a nude lipstick instead of the bright pink his mother normally wears.

“Findekáno,” he says, loud and clear. He stands back up without taking her hand and lets his backpack slide off his shoulders. They can snicker at him all they want; he doesn’t care.

“Nolofinwion?” she asks, looking excited.

“Yes…” he raises his eyebrows. How does this lady know who he is? What does she want with him?

“Oh, I’m sorry, pumpkin, I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Ms. Nienna, I’m one of the counselors here.”

Oh.

She smiles at him. She doesn’t show teeth when she smiles.

“I don’t need a counselor anymore,” Fingon says, turning back to his lock, feeling a flush appearing on his cheeks. I am older now; I can deal with my own problems, he thinks to himself. A quiet laugh surprises him once more, and he looks back at Ms. Nienna.

“Sorry,” she smiles at him once more. She smiles too much, Fingon decides. When someone smiles that much, they don’t actually mean it. “I’m not laughing at you. I am just surprised by the fact that you assumed that I thought you needed a counselor.”

Fingon looks more closely at her. She smiles a lot, but the smile doesn’t reach her eyes. She’s examining him. He tries to keep calm. He doesn’t like when people stare at him. He’s not some freak to be stared at. His jaw clenches without him meaning to. “I’m not crazy, and I know to breathe to calm down when I’m angry.” He takes a deep breath in and out, in part to demonstrate and in part because he needs it.

She nods slowly, not smiling this time. It’s the lack of a smile that tempers Fingon’s fight response. “I can see that. You do a very good job of knowing when you’re getting upset and taking steps to make yourself feel better.” Fingon blinks, feeling himself relax a little. A part of him enjoys the praise; the other part wants to resist. He doesn’t—he shouldn’t need it. He needs to be normal. Normal kids don’t have tantrums like these. Normal kids can breathe and move on and deal with the next problem. “I just happen to know your name, because when you change schools, your counselor has to let us know that you were talking to them.” Fingon’s eyes widen. “Don’t worry, don’t worry. I have no idea what you and your counselor talked about,” she promises quickly. “That’s still between you and your counselor. I just know that you did, and I wanted to reach out to see if you’d be interested in maybe talking to me. Maybe one day we can have lunch together, and we can get to know each other better?”

“I don’t need a counselor,” Fingon repeats. He bites his lip, glancing at his locker.

“Oh, I’m sorry, you must be in a hurry to get picked up, and I’m making you late,” she says. “Can I help you with your locker?”

He nods. “Please,” he adds quickly, remembering his manners. He hands her the paper, but she pushes it back towards him.

“Nope. Your locker, you get to do it. I’m just going to tell you how.” She smiles again. “This first number of your code, turn the knob of your locker to the right and pass that number three times, and then the fourth time you stop.” Fingon looks at her doubtfully, but she nods, so he tries it. “Okay, keep going, one more time… okay, stop. Now, turn the knob to the left and pass the second number once and the second time, stop there.” Fingon frowns at her. She laughs. “Sorry, I’m not giving great directions. Turn the knob the left and I’ll tell you when to stop… okay… keep going… stop. Alright, last one, turn the knob the right and stop right at the last number. Perfect!” Fingon pulls on the locker, and to his great pleasure, it opens immediately. “Yay! You got it! And on the first try, too!”

Fingon grins at her and starts pulling out the books he won’t need to take home out of his backpack and into his locker. The counselor stands there, waiting for him, and Fingon resists the urge to roll his eyes. Yes, he needed help opening the locker, but he’s quite capable of moving things from his backpack to his locker, thank you very much. He refrains from sassing the counselor, however, and closes his locker when he’s done and gives her a perfunctory smile. She still has that “I’m trying to figure you out” look on her face. Fingon doesn’t like it.

“Before I go, can you tell me what pronouns you prefer to go by?” Fingon stares at her. Pronouns? Does any adult at this school actually speak in words children can understand? Is he stupid, or are they extra? But she seems to know that this a term he would be unfamiliar with, for she quickly follows up with: “As in, if I were talking to you to another student, do you want me to say, ‘Fingon, he’s a really sweet kid!’ or do you prefer ‘she’ or something else?”

Something else?

There’s another word?

He’s never really minded ‘he’ but he had no idea there was another option.

“Like what?” he blurts. “What could I use instead of he or she?”

He does need to leave soon. His Atya won’t be upset if he’s late, but he does want to get home. Today has been exhausting, but his curiosity burns.

“Some people use ‘they’ if they would rather not be referred to as a boy or a girl,” she offers. Fingon’s heart beats faster. Suddenly, he wants to stay here for as long as he can until Ms. Nienna explains everything, gives him the words he needs to understand. “So, if that’s you, I could say, ‘Fingon, they are a really sweet kid!’”

They. Fingon, they. They. It sounds a little funny, but he wants to know more. He needs to know more. If he uses “they,” will everyone finally understand that he’s not a boy or a girl? If he’s not a boy or a girl, where should he go during lunch and recess, because they are divided by boy and girl? And does that mean he can be moved to a different homeroom?

He has so many questions.

“Can we have lunch together tomorrow?” he asks, suddenly.

Ms. Nienna smiles, a smile that finally reaches her eyes. “I’d love that, Fingon. Let’s have lunch tomorrow, and we can talk more about it. You seem like you have a lot of questions.” Fingon nods, biting his lip, but if Ms. Nienna thinks that’s odd that he’s so interested in this, she doesn’t say anything.

So Fingon decides to take a chance.

“Ms. Nienna,” he says, his voice trembling a little. But the hallways are clear now, and there’s no risk of being overheard by a nasty peer.

“Yes, dear?”

“I’m not a boy, you know? Everyone thinks I am, but I’m not. And I’m not a girl either,” he adds hurriedly.

Her expression doesn’t change, and somehow that’s more reassuring to Fingon than another smile. “Thanks for sharing that with me, Fingon. That’s very brave of you to share something so personal.” She puts a hand on his shoulder, but Fingon throws his arms around her, hugging tight, grateful for this goddess who might finally be able to give him the words he needs to exist.


	12. Intentions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Finrod is being bullied at soccer, Fingon can't help but step in. Turgon is less thrilled at his older sibling's intervention. 
> 
> But perhaps it's intentions that matter in the end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for racist commentary on appearances. Fingon is having none of it, though, so he will address this.

Fingon glares daggers at the little boy across from them who smirks. The coach’s hand is still on Fingon’s shoulder, preventing from reacting any further, but Fingon wishes, swears that as soon as this is over, he is going to hold that boy down and give him a piece of his mind. Finrod sits in the corner, looking down at his hands, while Turgon stands next to him, his glare nearly rivaling Fingon’s.

“Your parents will be here any minute and then we’ll sort this out,” the coach says. Fingon glares at him, too. There’s nothing to “sort out.” The coach should have known ages ago that Finrod was being bullied—and not just by this one boy. All of them were mean to Finrod, making fun of him not only for his eyes but for his gentle manner and general inability to be disrespectful to another person. Finrod was not like other children his age. While most children seemed to get off on teasing each other, good-naturedly or not, Finrod was loyal and true. He asked questions, instead of making assumptions. He was the first to congratulate the opposing team on a win. He refused to ever stoop as low as calling others names or trash-talking the other team. He took their fathers’ code of ‘treat others the way you want to be treated’ to the extreme, and Fingon wasn’t sure if he wanted Finrod to grow up and realize that no one truly lived by that code, or if he hoped that Finrod would never lose his kindness.

In response to the bullying, Finrod, of course, smiled awkwardly, pretended it was fine, but Fingon, having confronted Turgon about it, knew this was not the case. Fingon balls his fists in frustration. How could the coach not realize what was happening?

Or did he simply not care?

He looks to Turgon whose glare has faded into a grimace. Their father will not be pleased, but in fairness, Fingon only held the other boy down to get an apology out of him. He had never planned on hurting him, and he knew it wasn’t okay that he had held down a boy who was younger than him. But when the boy pulled his eyes into a slant and told Finrod to go back to where he came from, that there was no use having a loser on their team, Fingon really, truly lost it. He would feel guilty, except he could tell from the other boy’s expression that he fully expected to get away with it.

The door opened and everyone looked up.

“Hi, Atya,” Finrod says quietly, face slightly pink. Uncle Arafinwe looks mostly confused, and Fingon can’t blame him. Of everyone in the family, Finrod is the last one anyone would expect to be liable to receive a call home for misbehavior.

“Hello,” his uncle replies slowly, coming to stand next to him, before shaking hands with the coach. “You mentioned something about a fight?”

“It wasn’t a fight,” Fingon interrupts. The coach raises his hand to try to silence Fingon, but Fingon ignores him. “I held him down, but I never hit him. He’s making that part up. And I only held him down because he was being mean to Finrod. Ask Turgon and Finrod, they’ll tell you.”

Uncle Arafinwe looks to Finrod, and for the first time, the other boy looks nervous. Finrod nods a little, but Uncle Ara only sighs. “Well, I suppose if it came to it, you won’t believe them because they’re related and they’d cover for each other if need be,” Uncle Ara reasons, looking at the coach, who nods in response.

“I understand that this is difficult, and I’m sorry, but I didn’t see what happened. One second, the boys are having a water break, the next, Findekáno is on top of him.” He points to the other boy, “and I got thirty boys yelling, ‘fight’ surrounding them.”

Uncle Arafinwe nods sagely, and Fingon rolls his eyes. Leave it to Uncle Ara to try to understand all perspectives and empathize and all that crap. No wonder Finrod never even raises a hand in jest at other people. Despite the fact that he knows he’ll be in trouble for his actions, he hopes his own father arrives soon.

“Well, it sounds like you own this young man an apology, Fingon,” Uncle Ara says, turning to him now.

“For what?” Fingon spits.

Uncle Ara raises an eyebrow, and Fingon looks down at the ground. “For pinning him to the ground, at the very least, even if you didn’t hit him.”

Fingon takes a deep breath. “Fine. Sorry.”

“For? At look at him when you speak,” Uncle Ara instructs.

Fingon forces himself to raise his head, but immediately, the other boy’s smirk flares his temper once more. “Only if he apologizes, too,” Fingon demands.

“I didn’t do anything,” the other boys says quickly, looking at the coach. “I was just wiping at my eyes, and Findekáno took it the wrong way.”

“You liar!” Fingon hisses. He looks to Turgon and Finrod for support, but neither look back at him. “Seriously? You’re going to let him get away with it!” he exclaims to the younger boys.

“Nobody asked you to get involved, Fingon,” Turgon finally says.

“It’s okay, Finno. I know you were trying to do the right thing. You just took it too far,” Finrod says. “I think you should apologize to him,” he continues with a small smile. “He doesn’t know any better, and I’d gladly educate him a little on the stronger meaning of his words, if he’d be willing to sit down and talk it out.”

Fingon gapes at his little cousin. The other boy looks like he’s about to laugh. Uncle Ara’s eyes narrow a little. “Fingon, we’re waiting on you. I’m taking you all home as soon as you apologize.”

Fingon clenches his jaw. “Fine. I’m sorry you’re such a racist douchebag—”

“Fingon!”

“—that you make fun of other people who don’t look like you—”  
“Findekáno!” 

“—and I’m sorry that you’re such a coward that you’ll pick only on kids you know won’t fight back.” Fingon looks coolly at his uncle. “I’m done. Can we go home now?”

The coach does that thing that adults do when they want to have a deep conversation with you and kneels next to him. “Findekáno, I know you know that was not good sportsmanship.”

Fingon blinks at him. “And I know you know it’s not good sportsmanship to make fun of your teammates,” he retorts. The coach’s face goes red, and he stands up quickly.

“Mr. Finwion, I think it’s best you take your boys home. Clearly, some of the lessons from home have gone amiss here, and I’ll be sorry to let them go for the season, but I don’t think this is going to work out.”

Fingon scoffs and without waiting for his uncle, walks out of the coach’s office.

“Findekáno!” His uncle, cousin, and brother hurry after him.

“He’s a liar,” Fingon rages. “He’s a good for nothing liar! He pulled his eyes back and was making fun of Finrod for his eyes and saying that he was loser, and—”

“Finrod, Turgon, can you all please go clear your lockers?” Uncle Ara interrupts calmly. Fingon doesn’t see the younger boys’ reaction, too busy seething from earlier events. Uncle Ara leans to his eye-level, and Fingon huffs. Yet another adult who thinks that makes things better. “Finno, don’t you think I know that?”

Fingon’s frowns deepens. “Then why didn’t you say anything? Why did you take his side?”

“It’s not about taking sides,” Uncle Ara says calmly. “It’s about the fact that I am responsible for you all, and your actions were inappropriate. I have not raised that young man. I do not know the home that he comes from. But I do know that your father has always imparted on you the importance of using your words rather than your fists.”

“I didn’t hit him,” Fingon insists.

“No, I believe you didn’t,” Uncle Ara says after a pause. “But you did pin him down?”

“Yes.”

“Should you have?”

“Yes. He was bullying Finrod.”

“What was the other option?”

Fingon knew where he was going with this. “The coach knew. He’s seen it happen before, and he just tells the other kids that that isn’t okay, and then keeps us playing. He hasn’t done anything about it.”

“Okay. But did you ask him to?”

“He should know better. He’s an adult.” A realization strikes him. No. That’s not true. Adults don’t know any better either. “He should have done something.”

“But you didn’t ask him to?”

“No,” Fingon admits. “I took it into my own hands.”

“And what did you succeed in doing? Does that boy know any better now?”

“No. But he’s a racist coward, and I can’t change that.”

“What else happened?”

Fingon frowns. “What do you mean?”

“What are the consequences of your actions?” Fingon thinks for a moment, and then shrugs. Uncle Ara sighs. “You got you and your brother and your cousin kicked off the team.”

“What?!”

“Did you not hear the coach’s words? He is letting you go for the season. You won’t be allowed to come back.”

“But,” Fingon sputters, and Turgon and Finrod return, the dark expressions on their faces and stuffed gym bags confirmation of his Uncle’s words. Fingon falls silent. Uncle Ara pats him on the shoulder, then begins walking to the car. Neither Turgon nor Finrod say a word to him.

When they arrive home, Fingon tries to explain to Anairë what happened, but Turgon walks upstairs and shuts himself up in his room. Fingon winces when he hears the door slam.

Anairë gives him a hug. “Sweetheart, I know you were trying to do the right thing, but you know what I’ve told you.” Fingon looks at her miserably. His mother has indeed warned him that the older he gets, the more he has to watch the way he controls his body. When you’re six, you’re little, and adults understand when you lose your temper and don’t have the words, and you hit something instead; at ten years old, the world is less understanding. “I think you should go apologize to your brother.”

Fingon nods slowly. Turgon is never going to forgive him. His little brother is the king of holding grudges, but he owes it to his mother to at least try. He doesn’t bother knocking on Turgon’s door, knowing he’ll be denied entry if he asks.

Turgon is sketching furiously in a notebook, glancing up to give Fingon an angry look before returning to his sketch. Fingon feels smaller, but he decides to be brave and sit next to his brother on the bed. “That looks really good,” he tries. Indeed, his brother is an impressive sketch artist for his age. Fingon can hardly draw a straight line, much less mess with shadows and light in artwork.

“Shut up,” Turgon says, but his angry look softens slightly.

“I’m sorry, Turukáno. I messed up,” Fingon says softly. Turgon’s hand freezes, and he dumps the sketchbook onto the bed, turning to look at his brother with undisguised fury.

“Yes. Yes, you did. You messed up, just like you always do,” Turgon replies, viciously. Fingon flinches. “Why do you always have to stick your nose into other people’s business? We were dealing with it ourselves. We had already asked coach to transfer us to a different team, and we were going to start a new team next week, and you just couldn’t resist playing hero and jumping in, could you? Could you?”

“You all didn’t tell me—”

“Why would we!” Turgon exclaims. “You play in a different age group. If you weren’t such a nosy older brother—” Fingon flinches again, feeling his eyes fill with tears, “you’d have stayed on your field, and Finrod and I would still get to play. But you just can’t help yourself, can you? You’re not one of your comic book heroes, Fingon. You don’t have any superpowers, and even if you did, I don’t need your help, you always make everything worse!”

His brother doesn’t raise his voice. Turgon never raises his voice. But his words are nonetheless said viciously.

Wordlessly, Fingon slides off his brother’s bed, tears falling from his eyes. Turgon’s angry expression slips, and if Fingon looked, he would have noticed his brother turning away from him, a conflicted expression upon his face. But Fingon isn’t looking or listening anymore. He walks over the door and let himself out, not hearing his brother’s whisper:

“I’m sorry.”

Fingon closes his own door softly, clambering onto his bed to hold a pillow tightly against him. His brother is right. He isn’t anything special. He doesn’t have any superpowers. Gosh, why does he always get himself involved in things? The rumination starts, and Fingon doesn’t have the energy to fight it. He sits and lets it consume him until he can’t even move. He hears the knock on his door, hears his brother say, “Finno,” but Fingon can only hug the pillow more tightly in response.

Turgon doesn’t try to come in.

Minutes later, he hears the sound of paper sliding under the door. Fingon begins breathing the way the counselors have taught him until he’s no longer crying. Judging from the light in his room, Atya will be home soon, and Amil is probably going to come check on him soon. He still feels guilty. He looks towards the floor at the paper, staring at it, putting the pillow to the side, turning to face it, stare at it some more, until finally, he gets out of his bed and snatches the paper up.

It’s a sketch. A sketch of him, his brother, and his cousin all in their soccer uniforms with their arms around each other, grinning. At the bottom, it reads: “I forgive you, and I hope you’ll forgive me.” Fingon smiles a little at the picture, holding it in his hand, as he returns downstairs. The noise of the TV grows louder, as he descends, and he finds his brother and father watching a movie.

“Hey, Finno,” his father greets, and Turgon shoots him an uncertain smile. “I heard a lot happened at soccer practice today.” His father’s eyes pierce him, but Atya doesn’t seem angry, just concerned. Fingon nods.

“I’m sorry for getting us kicked out of soccer,” Fingon apologizes, looking more at Turgon than his father. His father places his arm at the top part of the couch and gestures for Fingon to come sit, which Fingon does, and his father curls his arm around him.

“Turgon told me what happened,” Fingolfin informs him. “It sounds like you were trying to do the right thing, you just went the wrong way about it.” Fingon doesn’t know what to say to that, but his father gives him a gentle kiss on his hair, and Fingon gives Turgon a small smile that Turgon returns. “Someday, you’ll learn that good intentions aren’t the end all, be all,” Fingolfin whispers, “but until then, I’m glad I raised a son who has good intentions.”

And despite being misgendered, Fingon curls himself further against his father, recognizing his father’s intentions for what they are.


	13. Admire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Empowered by the comments of his youngest cousins, Fingon makes a big decision.

**Admire**

Fingon holds the ball tightly in his hands, grinning at the little Aegnor and Angrod who stare at him with an intensity they would describe as ferocious but he can only describe as adorable. He dribbles the basketball, keeping it in one hand, goading them: “Come on! I’m not just gonna stand here!” Aegnor and Angrod both rush towards him, and he laughs as he passes the ball between his legs, turning, and smoothly continuing to dribble with his left.

Aegnor is the taller of the two, standing as tall as Fingon’s waist. He inherited his father’s curly hair, though his smile is the same as his mother’s. Once, he asked Fingon if he looked more like Earwen or Finarfin, and Fingon told him the truth: beyond his hair, there was nothing about Aegnor that looked like Finarfin. Angrod was the opposite. His skin was almost as dark as Fingon’s, hair wavy, swinging back and forth in the ponytail Angrod always keeps it in, because he insists on having long hair like Fingon’s.

Fingon can’t help but look at them and smile. He always wanted little siblings that wanted him. He never expected to find them in his youngest cousins.

With a grin, he tosses the ball up, and wholly unfairly taking advantage of his superior height, catches it two feet before the basketball hoop, then dunks it in the kiddie hoop. (At least at this hoop, he’s tall enough to dunk.) Aegnor and Angrod groan, but Aegnor takes the ball with a look of determination. “You’re not going to score again,” Aegnor pledges, dashing to the center of the make-shift court. Fingon doesn’t even try to block Angrod, who catches the ball from Aegnor and begins to slowly dribble it forward. His little hands have a tough time controlling the ball, so even though his progress towards the hoop is painfully slow, Fingon lets him take it close enough for a lay-up before knocking it out of his hands.

“You gotta dribble the ball with both hands,” Fingon reminds him, passing the ball back to him. Angrod nods vigorously, reclaiming the ball; his face screws into a look of concentration as he slowly, carefully passes the ball between his hands. “Great job, Angrod,” Fingon praises, and his cousin beams—and immediately, loses control of the ball. Aegnor chortles, running after it. Angrod deflates, but Fingon pats him on the shoulder. “It’s okay. You just gotta try again. You are already doing so much better!”

“Catch!” Aegnor yells, tossing Angrod the ball out of the blue. Luckily, Angrod reacts quickly, expertly catching the ball. Before Fingon can move, Aegnor tackles him, wrapping himself tightly around his older cousin. Laughing and rooted to the spot, Fingon watches while Angrod dribbles the ball to the hoop—this time with both hands—and manages to score a lay-up. The boys whoop and run around the backyard, celebrating their one point against Fingon, when Finrod comes out to join them.

“Finrod! Finrod!” Aegnor yells joyfully: “We scored against Fingon!”

Finrod raises an eyebrow, and Fingon bites back a smile. “Okay,” Finrod says doubtfully. “Amil says it’s time for you all to go inside for dinner,” Finrod informs them. Aegnor and Angrod slump immediately, groaning and looking to Fingon for support, but Fingon makes a shooing motion at them. Angrod scowls.

“But I wanna keep playing!”

“But you gotta eat if you want to get big and strong,” Fingon reminds him. Angrod huffs but hurries inside without further complaint; Aegnor follows close behind. Except, once at the door, Angrod comes running back and pulls something out of his pocket.

“I made something for you in school today,” Angrod says, looking slightly uncertain. He holds out the folded piece of paper, and Fingon takes it, bemused at the crinkled note.

“Oh?”

We were supposed to write about someone we admire, and I wrote about you, and I wanted you to have it,” Angrod smiles. Fingon smiles back, wondering what Angrod could have possibly written. Angrod shrugs, then the runs into the house. A smile still on his lips, Fingon opens the note:

_**The person I most admire is** my big cusin Fingon. **I**_ _ **admire** my big cusin Fingon, **because** he is realy good at basketball. My big cusin Fingon **is special because** he is not a boy or a girl he is nonbinairy so he is not a boy or a girl. He is brave, because sumtimes peple make fun of him, but he is brave and nice and treats peple the way he want to be treated. **When I get older, I want to be** **like** my big cuson Fingon. _

Oh.

He feels a warmth run through him, almost a shiver that threatens to overwhelm him with a host of feelings of love and disbelief and joy and pleasure. He makes a noise, and Finrod comes to stand next to him. 

“Can I see it?”

Wordlessly, Fingon hands it over, still otherwise frozen in disbelief. He remembers being their age and not understanding. He remembers being three and thinking the only special thing about letters was that they got him pizza, never realizing that when he was six, he’d need them to put his words into a feeling that he didn’t like being boy; until he became ten and realized that it wasn’t _just_ a feeling. He didn’t not like being a boy; he wasn’t a boy. He remembers crying on his bed, thinking that there was something so wrong about him, from his thoughts to his body to his existence until the day Ms. Nienna came into his life, and he started to think that maybe, just maybe, he was okay. He was no superhero, but he was no villain either.

And then Angrod wrote him this card.

Fingon burst into laughter, tears falling from his eyes at the sheer absurdity of it all: a six-year-old who so easily described an identity grown folks had never heard of; a shift from being a ten-year-old who hid under his covers to try to hide himself to being a thirteen-year-old who knew who he was and—

“I’m going to tell them,” Fingon blurts. He blinks, realizing he had forgotten Finrod—who now stares him with a mixture of concern and amusement—is standing next to him.

“What are—” Finrod starts.

“I’m going to tell Amil and Atya. And Uncle Ara and Earwen. I’m going to come out to them,” Fingon explains, feeling his heart rate quicken. “I’m going to tell them that I don’t want them to call me their son anymore. That I want dresses and skirts in my closet, and that I—that I’m nonbinary.”

His heart pounds, but it’s not like before.

His heart isn’t pounding, because he’s frightened.

It’s pounding, because he’s excited.


	14. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten years after Fingon first begins to realize he is special, he finds the courage to tell his parents about it.

“Thank you so much for coming in to meet with us, Mr. and Mrs. Nolofinwion,” Ms. Nienna says kindly, shaking his parents’ hands. They have met her before, but those were always quick handshakes, introductions, “yes, Finno’s doing very well”s before moving on to the next teacher.

This meeting will be much longer than that. Fingon chews on his lip, despite the quick squeeze at the shoulder Ms. Nienna gives him. It’s bizarre to have his parents in his school. School and home are two different places. At school, Fingon is popular. The boys like him because he’s good at sports and can rattle off statistics like nobody’s business; the girls like him because he is a good listener, and he knows more about hair care than the average person; the teachers like him because he participates a lot, even if he doesn’t always finish all of his classwork. But, at home, he is lonely. Aredhel has her own circle of friends that she plays with; Turgon has his sketching that he isolates to complete; Atya and Amil have work to do all the time, so they can’t be with him, and, honestly, Fingon is not sure he wants them to be.

But, today, in Ms. Nienna’s office, his two worlds are about to collide.

Fingon bites his lip so hard it hurts, but it stops him from thinking. Ms. Nienna gives him a concerned look. They’ve talked about this at session, and Fingon knows he’s supposed to avoid using that tactic to get himself to stop thinking negative thoughts, but it’s hard. “Sorry,” he mutters. Fingolfin and Anairë give him a confused look, but he ignores them. Ms. Nienna gives him smile that’s meant to be comforting but doesn’t stop Fingon’s heart from racing.

He and Ms. Nienna practiced this. He knows what he needs to say. He knows—he knows but he doesn’t believe—that his parents will be okay with this. They might be confused at first, Ms. Nienna had told him, but you have to remember that this took two years—my whole life, Fingon corrects—for you to figure out, so you can’t expect them to get it immediately, okay?

Okay, he had said.

But would it be? Would it be okay?

“Thank you for inviting us in,” Anairë starts off, glancing at the counselor. “Finno, Ms. Nienna said you had something you wanted to share with us?”

“Can I do this by myself?” Fingon asks, looking at Ms. Nienna.

“Whatever makes you more comfortable,” she smiles.

Anairë and Fingolfin exchange worried looks.

“I can do it myself,” Fingon promises. “I want to.” Astaldo. It’s been years since anyone called him that, yet Fingon hangs onto the nickname. You are brave. You can do this. You can do this, he reminds himself.

“Okay, that’s fine, Fingon,” Ms. Nienna says. “I’ll be right in the next room if you need me,” she says to Fingon’s parents. She smiles at all of them, then exits the room.

“Finno, what’s going on? You have us pretty worried,” Fingolfin gives him a nervous smile.

Fingon takes a deep breath. “Um. I need to tell you all something, and I need you to listen and to not interrupt me, because it’s important.” His mind is blank. He is running purely on instinct. He doesn’t notice that his parents seem even more alarmed. “I tried to explain this in the past, but you didn’t believe me, and I need you to believe me now.” Fingolfin scoots back into his chair and nods. “Ms. Nienna and I have been talking for a long time about this, and I know for sure now. And one of the things we talked about was what it means to be a boy and being a boy or a girl isn’t about body parts.” He stares at the floor, face flushed, and he’s not sure if it’s from fear, embarrassment, or nearly overwhelming anxiety. He continues: “It can be about how you feel, or what you identify as…” He takes a breath, willing himself to keep his fingers from tapping anxiously against his leg. I get to choose, he reminds himself.

“I get to choose.” At last a sentence that comes out certain, and Fingon feel himself steady. He looks up: “And I choose that I’m not a boy or a girl, and I don’t want you to call me your son or call me Aredhel and Turgon’s brother, and I don’t want you to call me young man because I’m not.”

His parents are silent. He glances between them, his heartbeat quickening. The desire to throw up comes back, and Fingon feels himself start to fall apart, his leg shaking up and down, and he wants to run the fuck out of this room –

You have to tell them what you want. You’ve told them how you feel, now you need to tell them what you want, Ms. Nienna’s voice comes back to him. “And, um,” he finally manages, “you can help me by just calling me their sibling? And… I’d really like to get some clothes that are more like me. And I’d really like it if you could help me tell Uncle Ara and Auntie Earwen.”

His parents stare.

He feels his eyes filling with tears. “Please say something.” His voice cracks.

Fingolfin and Anairë glance at each other. “Finno, bu—why are you crying?” Fingolfin asks.

Tears are cascading from his eyes, and he’s not even sure why, but he tries to answer anyway, “Because you won’t say anything, and you don’t love me anymore, and—” He buries his face in his hands, sobbing.

He feels himself pulled into an embrace. “Shh, Finno, Finno, it’s okay,” he hears his mother say. “Of course, we love you, Fingon. We love you so much,” his father says, his own voice sounding thick. But Fingon can’t stop crying, because he’s wanted to say that for so long, and he loves that he’s being hugged but he still can’t believe them. He’s not the son they wanted. He’s not the older brother they wanted. How can he really be sure that they really love him? What if they’re just saying that?

His father lets go, but before Fingon can feel any worse, he’s offered a tissue. He wipes at his eyes, while Anairë clings onto his shoulders, still clutching him tight. He manages to slow his tears. “Better?” his father asks softly.

Fingon nods, even though he’s not. His mother rubs circles into his back. He doesn’t say anything anymore. He doesn’t know what to say.

“Finno, honey,” his mother sounds hesitant, and Fingon steels himself, feeling bile rise to his throat. “We really do support you, and we love you so, so much; you’re always going to be our baby b—our baby. But I’m still a little confused about what you mean—do you think, would it be okay if I asked the counselor to come back in to talk?”

“Unless you want to explain?” Fingolfin quickly offers. Anairë bites her lip at the offer.

Fingon looks between them, wordless. “I—I don’t what to say,” he finally whispers. He thought the weight on chest would have disappeared by now, yet he feels the compression harder than ever. It leaves him barely able to breathe.

Fingolfin gives a little chuckle. “I don’t really know what to ask either,” his father confesses. Fingon cracks a smile at the sight of his father’s embarrassed look. “I guess… is this like one of those things where you want to, I guess, change your body?”

Anairë’s eyes fly wide open. “No, I mean, I don’t think so. I just, it’s like I said,” Fingon tries to explain. “I just, I’m not a girl or a boy… and I feel like neither label fits me? I, I mean, the biggest change is really, like I said, I just don’t want to be called a boy or a brother or all that stuff that

“Oh...” Fingolfin looks at Anairë, who lifts and drops her shoulders in response. Fingon finally recognizes Amil’s stress: her fingers massage her temple. Anairë stands and walks to the edge of the room and back.

“Amil?” he asks, fearful again.

“Fingon, you know it’s okay, if you’re gay,” Anairë says, rushed. “You don’t have to go as far as all of this not being a girl or boy.” Fingon’s tears bubble up, and he shakes his head frantically.

“It’s not like that; it’s not like that!” he protests. His father wraps his arm around him again, cradling him against his chest.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay, Finno,” Fingolfin whispers, shooting a look at Anaire that she ignores. “We’re all just trying to understand each other, okay?”

“I’m just saying, Finno,” Anaire continues hurriedly, not even glancing at her husband. “Gay men can be really effeminate. That doesn’t mean you’re not a man.” Fingon’s breathing increases, but Anairë doesn’t notice. “I mean, I remember when you were five, and you wore that dress to your kindergarten graduation, and you know, your father and I even talked about it, that maybe you were gay and this was just an early sign—”

“Anairë.” Fingolfin’s voice is a tightrope.

Fingon stops breathing. Anairë ceases her pacing.

“We had this conversation,” Anairë says, tears coming into her eyes. Fingon frowns and looks between his parents. “We talked about it, and we agreed. We said we’d support him if he wanted to be a girl, and then he made it clear he didn’t want to be, and—why are you making your life so hard, Finno?” Her voice cracks and her tears fall. She doesn’t give him an opportunity to respond: “What does that even mean that you’re not—it just doesn’t make sense, Fingon. There isn’t even a word for that—that’s how nonsensical this all is!”

Fingon feels his father’s hold on him tighten. “Anairë—” his father starts.

“There is a word for it.” Fingon hates how voice comes out choked with tears. “There is a word for it; you just don’t know it. I’m non-binary, and I’m not making my life harder. My life is already hard,” he spits. “My life has been hard this whole time; you just didn’t see it. I’ve known all my life I was different.” He exhales sharply, the following intake still a shudder. A part of him wants to keep going, wants to tell them what it was like to have every “we love you” laced with the fear that they did not love _him_ —they loved the son he wasn’t. He wants to make them confront their own shortcomings, wants to let them know how much he hurt.

But that would be cruel, and Ms. Nienna’s right: they were never trying to hurt him; they just didn’t have the words either.

Fingolfin’s grip slackens. “You’ve always known?” he asks. There’s a hesitation in his voice, maybe fear. But what would his _atya_ be afraid of right now?

“Yes,” he replies, confused.

“Like, even when you were three?”

“…Yes,” he repeats, then again, stronger this time: “Yes.”

Silence.

Anairë sits back down. Fingon extracts himself from his father’s grasp to look at Fingolfin’s slightly open-mouthed expression.

“I’m sorry,” Fingon whispers, not knowing what else to say. Fingolfin shakes his head.

“Not as much as we are,” Anairë replies softly. Fingon frowns at her statement, but Amil takes his hand and leans over to kiss his forehead, just like when he was little. She smiles softly at him, her eyes still watery and red. She sighs and sits back down in her chair, her hand still holding his. “For the longest time, we thought we had you figured out,” she lets out a single chuckle, glancing over at Fingolfin. “We thought at first that you wanted to be a little girl, but then time passed and you made it clear you didn’t, and then we figured, well, maybe this a stereotype on our part, and maybe he’s just gay, and we need to make sure he knows we’re okay with that, and then—”

“But this whole time you’ve known,” Fingolfin repeats, hazily.

“I didn’t have the words to explain it,” Fingon tries.

“Shhh,” Anairë hushes him. “We’re not blaming you.” Atya lets out a shuddering exhale, and suddenly it clicks: they don’t blame him; they blame themselves.

He grabs Atya’s hand. Both of them had such good intentions.

“It’s okay,” he smiles through his tears. “You didn’t have the words either.”


	15. Create

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In effort to find some answers, Fingon comes back to the place he first discovered he was special: the library.

At the slight breeze, he palms the edges of his skirt nervously, as the fabric swishes upwards, and for the first time, he feels the air high up his thigh. Fingon’s eyes dart about, but in this summer heat only he appears to be heading up the stairs of library. The skirt settles back against his skin, and his arms relax back at his sides in time for his body to hesitate at the sight of his reflection in the doors. 

It’s June, warm enough for this little floral skirt he’d purchased at the mall a few weeks ago. He remembers admiring the swish of the garment and how to blue and red flowers mixed so well on their white background – and his anxiety about wearing something so short. “It’s weird to see this much of my thigh,” he remarked to Aredhel, smoothing the fabric down.

She scoffed, coming to stand beside him in the mirror. “You look great, Finno. Skirts are usually just like that. As long as,” she held his arm gently against his side and slide her hand down until she smoothed his fingers flat against the cloth, “it is about the length of your fingertips, no one should say a word. And even then,” she shrugged, stepping back, “who cares what they say?”

He smiled at her then, but her concerns were misplaced. He has never cared for others’ comments; he needs his own sense of self-satisfaction. His look has never belonged to him before. He wants his ventures in new clothing—styles that had always caught his eye—to let him feel comfortable and confident, yet, wearing this beautiful skirt, he mostly feels…exposed. At the unease caused yet again by his reflection, Fingon feels another stab of frustration. It shouldn’t feel like this. It should be easier than this. It was probably all this internalized transphobia.

Right?

He shivers as he hustles through the second set of double doors and into the frigid library, A/C on full blast to combat the summer heat. He pulls his jean jacket tighter around him and looks around at the insides of the building, the check-out counter, the bookshelves, the computers, the edge of the play rug in the children’s section. A nostalgic smile curls, then he looks right in front of him, and his lips fall apart to produce the softest gasp of surprise, before he feels a wave of emotion, and his mouth shudders into a disbelieving grin.

He walks over to the table, where a pride flag sticks out among the books, a sign with recommendations from librarians of LGBTQ literature. He gazes at the titles and covers, drinking in the sight, sliding his fingers over the plastic sheets to reassure himself that this is real before he can begin to process the words on their pages. Granted, he comes infrequently to library nowadays, but he had never seen a display like this before. He had come today with the hopes that this section existed, never once imagining that the collection would be front and center, in every patron’s view.

“Looking for anything in particular?”

Fingon knocks over a book onto the floor when he jumps. “Sorry,” he mutters, at the man standing in front of him, before fixating on the “they/them” button on the man—the person’s shirt, frowning in confusion as he recognizes him—them. 

Mr. Irmo?

“Are you going to get that?” the person—Mr. –Mr.? Irmo asks. Fingon nods, about to bend over to pick up the book, when he remembers what Aredhel said about that and catches himself in time to squat down to pick up the book and place it back on the table. “Findekáno?”

“Um, hi, Mr. Irmo… I was just looking… at the books,” Fingon finishes lamely, not at all looking at the books, struggling to look at anything but the “they/them” pin on Mr. Irmo’s shirt.

Mr. Irmo stares him down for a moment, then gives him a wide smile. “It’s been a while. I thought we’d lost you forever to that summer soccer camp,” they joke. “How are you? How’s your family?”

“Um, good,” Fingon manages. Mr. Irmo waits, and Fingon feels compelled to fill the silence. “I’m… taking a break from soccer camp this year. I was hoping to find some books?”

Mr. Irmo nods. “From this table?” they gesture.

Fingon nods back. “Yes.” Mr. Irmo looks him over with a small smile, gaze pausing for a second at Fingon’s floral skirt.

“Any community in particular?” A smile plays along their lips.

At the slight tease, Fingon grins in relief: “Yes, I’m looking for books on the transgender community. I’ll take anything—fiction or nonfiction, especially if there’s anything on non-binary people.”

Mr. Irmo nods. “Yes, I can definitely recommend some of those.” They pause, then gently hold up a little basket from the table. “Would you like a pronouns pin?”

Fingon smiles. “Yes, please,” he replies, fetching a he/him pin and putting onto his jean jacket. Though Mr. Irmo is quick to smile, Fingon catches the tail end of a frown. His anxiety spikes. “I am nonbinary,” he explains quickly, “I just prefer—”

“You don’t have to justify anything,” Mr. Irmo interrupts, holding up a hand. “You don’t have to justify a single thing to anyone, Findekáno, least of all to a librarian who hasn’t seen you in years. Nothing you chose to call yourself, you chose to wear, to do makes you any less nonbinary,” the librarian asserts. 

Fingon is so surprised by Mr. Irmo’s words, he stares wide-eyed. Mr. Irmo stares back, eyes warm but serious. Fingon looks away, biting his lip lightly, eyes on the shiny hardwood floors, as he begins to process Mr. Irmo’s words. He knows that, in theory. Anyone can be nonbinary, no matter what they wear or do. Nonbinary isn’t about expression: it’s his identity, but what does it mean to express that identity? He thought he knew. He thought that that would mean fulfilling his wish to wear skirts and make-up, but that only seems to make him uncomfortable; granted, it feels uncomfortable in a different way than when he would wear baggy shorts and jeans—but it’s so frustrating that this freedom to do, to wear, to be whatever somehow makes it even harder to decide who and how _he_ is.

Or maybe it’s all the internalized gender norms. But that’s why he needs these books. He needs to know if this uncomfortable feeling will pass, or if there’s something else he could try. Unsure how to, or if he even should, express his frustration, he mutters, “I know,” to fill in the silence.

Mr. Irmo raises an eyebrow slightly, a look more of concern than judgement. “Is this why you’re not doing soccer this year?”

Fingon scowls, eyes darting to Mr. Irmo, then back to the floor. His mom and dad had asked him the same question. “No…I mean, kind of. Yes and no.” Now that he was out to his parents, he had no excuse. He should be brave out there. He should wear his long hair proudly. He should tell his coach not to refer to them as “his boys” and “gentlemen” because not everyone on the team was a guy. He should speak up when his teammates started chatting about cute girls on the sidelines and mention that one boy he thought was hot. “It’s complicated,” he blurts bitterly, looking back at Mr. Irmo, a fire in his eyes that threatened to erupt out of him and confess his dilemmas.

But his mouth betrays him, staying clamped shut, unwilling to share the thoughts that fleet across his mind, even as Mr. Irmo waits patiently. The fire turns inward, burning Fingon himself into another concealed fit of desperation. He doesn’t know what to do anymore. In a couple of months, he is starting high school, where the dress code is practically non-existent: who is he going to be when he walks through those doors? He knows who he wants to be, but he doesn’t know how to get there. That’s why he’s here. He came here for books because he came here for answers. The books held the answers; they had to. They held answers, or at least suggestions for universes of situations that Fingon would never have to face. These books had to have the answers, too, for what he was going through.

Right?

“I just…I need to know more about who I am,” Fingon finally manages. Another silence, but this time, Mr. Irmo appears to be the one struggling to concoct a response. Fingon taps his fingers against his side, fidgeting as he wonders whether he should say something. But Mr. Irmo finally sighs, and gestures at the table of books.

“These are all of them. This table is all the books we have on anything to do with queer and trans characters and situations. That’s it. That’s all.” At their resigned tone, Fingon now registers the table as rather small. They give Fingon a look that Fingon can’t quite understand. “There aren’t many books, Findekáno,” Mr. Irmo says quietly. “There aren’t many answers as to how one should, or even can, live their life outside of a gender binary.” Fingon takes a deep breath, his shoulders falling, the jean jacket slipping around him. He’s cold, but he doesn’t even register the feeling anymore. “I would recommend these,” they rummage and grab a few books, “to start.” Fingon doesn’t reach to take them. What’s the point? Three books? That’s it?

Mr. Irmo gives Fingon a half-smile, bringing the books back closer to their chest, then hesitates. “It’s… You already… Findekáno, no matter what you find—or don’t find—in these books, I hope you know, you’re an incredible young person.”

Fingon stares, his rumination ceased before it could flood him.

“I mean, you’re barely a teenager,” Mr. Irmo explains, “and you’ve not only imagined yourself but also started to create a you that the world has strived to deny exists, can exist.” They pause, then continues, stronger: “Findekáno, you have the answers. You are a visionary: you are living—you are _creating_ a world that doesn’t exist yet. Whatever you decide to do—or not do—do remember that your existence is revolutionary and brave and incredible, and I, for one, admire your courage.”

They smile, but their eyes are sad. “Anyway,” Mr. Irmo says, filling the silence once more, “we should get these books checked out.” Mr. Irmo begins walking to the checkout desk, but Fingon stays rooted to the spot, struck by their expression. He notes Mr. Irmo’s deliberate walk, his slightly hunched back, his graying hair, and Fingon can’t help but wonder: how long before Mr. Irmo had the words the explain? How many years had they lived with the excruciating pain of feeling uneasy, unworthy, unlovable in their own body? He looks down at the small table with disdain, then back at the checkout counter, where Mr. Irmo stands, head cocked slightly to the side, waiting.

Wearing this skirt is hard, because a world within which someone dresses like I do, despite being brought to believe I shouldn’t doesn’t exist yet, he cogitates. A world in which I belong doesn’t exist yet. But as he thinks these words, the pain he is long accustomed to isn’t there. There’s no heartache, no sagging shoulders, no weight upon his chest. Instead, he cracks a smile. A world in which I belong doesn’t exist yet, but I’m creating it. He internalizes this with a smile: I’m creating it. Whimsically, he flicks his hips to let the skirt whoosh around him, and he grins at the sight slightly paler, hairy thighs. Perhaps this year, his thighs will turn the color of his arms and calves. Perhaps he’ll get a maxi dress and see if that works for him. Perhaps he’ll try on heels, though seem a bit uncomfortable. He has a world to create. He may as well try it all.

Joyful, he sprints to catch up to Mr. Irmo at the checkout desk, grinning widely. Mr Irmo rolls his eyes even as he smiles back. “What I have told about running in the library?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end of "The Words to Explain"! If you've read this far, thank you so much. This has been such a pleasure to write, and I hope you enjoyed it :) If you want to know more about this AU's Fingon and the rest of his fam, keep reading the other fics in the series. As always, comments and kudos are greatly appreciated <3


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